Homecoming

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The oak tree stood all alone on the hilltop. So many days I spent with it as my sole companion. As a child I slept nestled in the cradle of its boughs. As childhood grew into adulthood, I preferred to nap beneath those up-stretched arms. It was always waiting for me to come and visit, and it beckoned to me even when I was not near.

This old friend had seen me through many trials. It was where I ran when I was in trouble. It was where I climbed when life seemed unfair. I shared my triumphs and my tribulations within earshot of its rustling leaves. It was where I met God.

For years now, making the trek to the top of the hill has not been as easy as it once was. I have seen eighty years of seasons come and go. Yet, I still make the pilgrimage as often as my aging bones will allow. Each time I set out to visit my old friend, I reminisce.

I met my old oak tree when I was barely three years old. It seemed so very large as I stood beneath its widespread limbs. My family had just moved to a lovely cottage that was at the base of the hill—Morgan's Hill, it came to be known. Mother packed a picnic lunch that day. It was springtime. The sky was that perfect shade of blue that escapes earthly description. Birds chirped and butterflies danced to their tunes. Green grass swayed to the rhythmic beating of their wings.

It was such a long climb for my three year old legs. I was very pleased when we sat to rest on a blanket that Mother had brought just for the occasion. After we dined on peanut butter and jelly—home made, I might add—my Dad lifted me way up to the lowest branch so that I could sit for a moment. The day was perfect; much like today!

Times were much simpler in 1934. Dad had enlisted in the Army right out of high school. He and Mother were high school sweethearts. They married before he completed boot camp, and I joined the happy couple just nine months later. Dad was assigned first to a station in North Carolina, then we moved to another base, Fort Benning, in Georgia.

The base nearly closed since World War I. But by the mid-1930s the post was booming with construction because of the federal works projects initiated during the Great Depression. Dad had just been promoted to sergeant.

The years passed quickly, or so it seemed. I started school in the nearby town of Cusseta. It was not far from the base. We settled into a blissful routine and our family had grown. Sarah was born in 1934, Thomas came along in 1936, and Seth was born in 1937. When not taking care of new babies and toddlers, Mother busied herself with tending a garden, canning vegetables, and making jellies, jams and pickles. It seemed that she always had something in varying stages of readiness.

Jars were rowed up on wide shelves that surrounded the kitchen. Not only were they beautiful sitting there atop those shelves, they promised epicurean delights to grace our humble table. I can still taste the blackberry jam and cantaloupe pickles that were two of my favorites. I loved to slather them on the fist-sized cathead biscuits that Mother prepared with each meal. It was heavenly!

Tragedy struck our idyllic family at the beginning of World War II. Dad was assigned to a unit that was sent into the Pacific theater. In April, 1942 he was killed on the Bataan peninsula near Manila Bay. When the telegram came, I ran to my safe place--the old tree on the hill. It welcomed me with its silence and soothed my tears with its solitude. I sat on the branch overlooking our home, and thought of the many times that my Dad had walked up the hill with me; the times that we had tossed a ball across the grassy knoll; the stories that Dad had shared with me about his work on the base. It was a time that was gone. Dad would not come home again.

Mother never remarried. Times were tough for our family of five. As soon as I could, I took a job at the service station in town. I pumped gas and washed windshields. The pay was poor but it was steady. I brought home the pittance to Mother each week and she added it to the pension that she received from the Army.

I finished high school in the spring of 1948. I decided to follow in my father's footsteps and joined the Army. After my basic training period, I was stationed at Fort Gordon. It wasn't terribly far from Mother and the kids. Eventually, I made it back home to Fort Benning. I married Susie Smith, a girl that I had known since we started the first grade. We decided to build a house near Mother.

When I got out of the military, I enrolled in courses in a college in Columbus. I majored in finance, and took a job in a bank. Susie and I raised a family, right there within sight of my magnificent old friend. To our beloved union were born six children--four handsome sons and two beautiful daughters. As children who were products of that era so often did, they scattered after high school. Adam lives in Pensacola, FL. Andrew moved up north; he lives in Detroit, Michigan. Benjamin and Caleb went into business together and now reside in Kennesaw, just north of Atlanta. Libby met a young man who was a doctor and they moved to Savannah, and Lola became a nurse, enlisted in the Marines, and lives with her husband in California. They have children and some even have grandchildren of their own now.

Susie went to be with our Maker ten years ago. Cancer claimed her life just eight-teen months after the doctors found it. I know she will be waiting for me when I cross over the Jordan. I buried her next to Mother underneath my faithful friend, the old oak tree. She rests at Mother's left side. The marker sent by the military instead of Dad's body is on Mother's right. I place flowers there on their birthday and at Christmas, providing the weather allows it.

I was diagnosed with the same cancer that took my precious Susie. The doctors poked and prodded at me for several weeks before they gave their verdict. They told me that I had six months to live. Well, that just shows you that doctors don't always know the plans of my Savior. It has been two years since then. During those two years, I have been able to witness the last of my grandchildren be baptized. Some accepted the Lord as children, but some procrastinated until recently. They are all church-going, Bible-believing, God-fearing Christians. Of this, I am proud.

Today, I make my final visit up this worn pathway to the top of the hill. The ancient friend that has seen me through childhood into old age will guard over my bones until the tree itself ceases to be. Susie, Mother and Dad are there, waiting. There are a lot of people gathered, too. All of my family members and friends are standing at the side of the yawning hole where the wooden casket will be placed. Tears are streaming down some of their eyes. Others are trying to console them. If I could only make them hear me, I would tell them not to cry. It is with joy that I go to my mansion in the sky. It is with happiness that I greet my Jesus face to face. Yes, I will miss them. But, it will be a grand homecoming when they take their final trek through death's door. What a glorious reunion we will have when we all get to Heaven.


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