The place we live is just a dot on the map, a nowhere place where not much happens. Every morning, the sun is generously slow to rise over the mountain, and the only sounds are the creek and the cows and the school bus. Every night, we see a sky full of stars and no street lights. There are about five hundred people here—mostly loggers and farmers and millworkers. Rarely do you find fancy degrees or white collars in our valley. We are people with roots, people with traditions, people who do things because they’ve always been done. This is the kind of place where everyone waves to you on the road, and your best neighbors walk in the front door without knocking. It’s also the kind of place you could turn off the cable and internet, unsubscribe from the local paper, and live on in oblivion. The world could destroy itself, and we’d be the last to know out here on our dead-end road.
I’ve lived this rural life most of my forty-two years, but there were times when I thought another place might be better. There were times when I felt like going and making disciples could only mean moving away, and I waited for that call to point us to a big work somewhere else, somewhere more important or more needy. But God showed me his kingdom is not just somewhere else, but here in this valley too.
Read the rest at Morning by Morning.
