Two Saturday nights a month, I work in Cullman County at a dirt racing track.
Tonight as I arrived at the track, I noticed I was the only person there. Tonight's race had been postponed, and I wouldn't be playing my role on the mic as the "Voice of River Valley Speedway." It appeared that I had made a burnt run.
On my way home, I stopped by an old house that I'd passed many times before. Fallen walls, a rotting porch, and broken windows told me that the house had been lifeless for at least fifty years. I had to have a picture. I just had to.
I walked next door to a brick house, much younger-- and knocked on the door. I introduced myself, and asked permission to photograph the old house next door.
"I'll do you one better. Would you like a history lesson?" I nodded yes, and not quite knowing what to expect I followed the woman inside.
I was introduced to her parents, an elderly couple perhaps in their nineties. I shook hands and was told to sit down in a recliner near the television showing the baseball game I had unintentionally interrupted. Mr. Pate muted the game, while his wife continued on with putting her puzzle together.
"That house was built by my grandfather in 1901 or so. Over 100 years old." For the better part of the next hour, this couple shared stories of growing up in log cabins, hard country life, and coming to know Christ. I was shown pictures of rural Cullman County from the late 1800's, and the last will and testament of the last man ever hanged in Cullman-- for a crime he didn't commit. I listened attentively as they poured years of history into someone they'd never met before.
As I stood up to say goodbye, my new friends tried to discourage me from leaving. "Preacher, don't go. Why don't you stay over for dinner?"
As inviting as it sounded, the disappearing sunlight told me that I needed to take my pictures and schedule a rain check. We shook hands again, and I was on my way towards the older house, with two mutts following me with curiosity.
As I took a few photos, suddenly I was in the house. I stopped taking pictures as the thoughts of children ran across the porch, playing tag as they ran barefoot. I saw a woman in the corner, sewing clothes to wear to church. A man was outside chopping wood for the stove, and I could see the mules tied to a plow near the dirt road where my car would be parked 100 years later. It was a different world: slower, simpler, and with more integrity. No technology, no electricity, and no water demanded a slower life at this house.
When I got home my odometer showed that I went fifty miles tonight-- but I traveled much, much farther. Very unusual because, on my way to the racetrack I was anticipating a night of speed, but instead I understood the importance of slowing down.
Sometimes in life we're too fast. We've gone too far and haven't appreciated the journey. Turn the phone off for a bit. Unplug the television for a while. Log off the net for a few hours.
Let's all slow down just a bit. Enjoy the ride we're on. Pretty soon it'll just be a memory....
**Feel free to share this story if you like. You can follow me here on Facebook, or on Twitter @RealTJArmstrong
On my way home, I stopped by an old house that I'd passed many times before. Fallen walls, a rotting porch, and broken windows told me that the house had been lifeless for at least fifty years. I had to have a picture. I just had to.
I walked next door to a brick house, much younger-- and knocked on the door. I introduced myself, and asked permission to photograph the old house next door.
"I'll do you one better. Would you like a history lesson?" I nodded yes, and not quite knowing what to expect I followed the woman inside.
I was introduced to her parents, an elderly couple perhaps in their nineties. I shook hands and was told to sit down in a recliner near the television showing the baseball game I had unintentionally interrupted. Mr. Pate muted the game, while his wife continued on with putting her puzzle together.
"That house was built by my grandfather in 1901 or so. Over 100 years old." For the better part of the next hour, this couple shared stories of growing up in log cabins, hard country life, and coming to know Christ. I was shown pictures of rural Cullman County from the late 1800's, and the last will and testament of the last man ever hanged in Cullman-- for a crime he didn't commit. I listened attentively as they poured years of history into someone they'd never met before.
As I stood up to say goodbye, my new friends tried to discourage me from leaving. "Preacher, don't go. Why don't you stay over for dinner?"
As inviting as it sounded, the disappearing sunlight told me that I needed to take my pictures and schedule a rain check. We shook hands again, and I was on my way towards the older house, with two mutts following me with curiosity.
As I took a few photos, suddenly I was in the house. I stopped taking pictures as the thoughts of children ran across the porch, playing tag as they ran barefoot. I saw a woman in the corner, sewing clothes to wear to church. A man was outside chopping wood for the stove, and I could see the mules tied to a plow near the dirt road where my car would be parked 100 years later. It was a different world: slower, simpler, and with more integrity. No technology, no electricity, and no water demanded a slower life at this house.
When I got home my odometer showed that I went fifty miles tonight-- but I traveled much, much farther. Very unusual because, on my way to the racetrack I was anticipating a night of speed, but instead I understood the importance of slowing down.
Sometimes in life we're too fast. We've gone too far and haven't appreciated the journey. Turn the phone off for a bit. Unplug the television for a while. Log off the net for a few hours.
Let's all slow down just a bit. Enjoy the ride we're on. Pretty soon it'll just be a memory....
**Feel free to share this story if you like. You can follow me here on Facebook, or on Twitter @RealTJArmstrong
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