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Dalton
Roberts |
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Home is not a house
where we grew up. It is a warm place in our heart and we are always
going home. The song “Precious
Memories” says “old home scenes of my childhood in fond memory
appear.” All of the old scenes that we fondly recall are right there
in that drawer of our soul marked “home.” The actual house where
I spent most of my early years was just a part of the warm place evoked
by the word “home.” One tiny little wall plaque with a picture of a
Robin and a Sparrow has meant more to me over the years than the
physical structure. It read: Said the Robin to the
Sparrow I would really like to
know Why these anxious
human beings Rush about and worry
so Said the Sparrow to
the Robin Friend, I think that
it could be They have no heavenly
father Such as cares for you
and me I cannot speak the
word home without thinking of that plaque. It created a warm place in my
heart that will always be calling me home. We had a huge oak tree
in the front yard we called “Oakie” and talked about like it was
cherished member of the family. Indeed, it was. We hung a swing from it
and it provided many hours of delirious fun to us in our “swinging
years. ”Not long ago I went by and took one of Oakie’s leaves home
with me as a “point of contact ”with home. Have you ever pressed
down in your journal a leaf from a tree or a place you love? It has
magical powers to take you back home. My sister painted me a
snow scene of a crooked tree in the back of our yard. It curved out like
it was designed to be a seat and extended over a branch where water
often gurgled along. I was forty years old before I read a book about
meditation but one of the places I meditated without knowing the word or
its meaning was sitting on that tree limb. I treasured my sister’s
painting of it and someone took it from my office 20 years ago. It was a
piece of home I lost and I am hoping she will paint it again. Home is more than a
place. It is people you learned to love, people you walked with through
both joyous and wrenching times. The father of a family living next door
to us in my earliest years died, leaving a widow and four children. The
men in the community built them a house on our property. Lella Mae and
Tiny were my age and we grew up together. Every time I see them, I go
home again. People you love can immediately transport you back home. Home can be some
little place no one else knows about. Wiley “Goose” Adams and I took
a pick and shovel down to Chickamauga Creek. We dug out a secret room in
a high bank of the creek covered by tree branches. We would pull back
the limbs, climb back in our room, and catch fish all day long. No one
else in the world ever knew about our little home away from home. When
Goose was dying I gave him a massage one day and talked about things we
had done and I know he heard me because he gave me a heavenly going-home
smile. After mother died, Dad
told me, “I have not been happy here since your mother went home.”
It may seem strange to talk of someone going home when they die. It is
my deep belief that we have a subconscious inner knowledge that this
world is not our original and final home. There is something in us that
remembers that home beyond this realm. Home is little pieces
of love stored in our heart by people and places. Is it any wonder that
we are always going home? Check out Dalton's
website at www.DaltonRoberts.com.
His writings are gathered at www.ipsfeatures.com.
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