It’s true. I am not ashamed at all to admit that I am a country girl from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. I was raised in the country air, went barefoot often (and still do), played in the dirt, grew up “speaking Southern” and was even baptized in a creek. I still say “y’all,” love the country and will never forget the amazing lessons I learned from living back home.
Today reminded me of one of those lessons. On our way home from running errands, Tim and I saw an old tractor sitting by the road. It looked like it had been around for a few decades and I immediately wondered about its history. Who all had driven it? How many fields had it mowed, raked or plowed? Did some young couple purchase it with their hard-earned money after securing their newly acquired farm? Did a father proudly teach his children how to work the land from the seat of that tractor?
I was quickly drawn back to my childhood days. Tractors were frequently seen driving up and down Route 42 in Craig County, Virginia. My Granddaddy Howard had one in his barn on the farm behind our house. Neighbors in our community quickly waved at us as they passed by on their tractors. Sometimes, they even stopped to inform us of the latest news or share new produce fresh from their gardens.
Perhaps my greatest memory is riding on the tractor with my Dad. We sometimes rode to Granddaddy’s farm, or to a neighbor or relative’s house to help in some way. As a little girl, I remember how huge those back tires looked and I knew they were much larger than me. I remember the loud noise the engine made as Dad accelerated across the road, paths and fields. No, there were no car seats or seat belts back then. There wasn’t air conditioning, (except that amazing, mountain air) or a radio to play music on the trip. It was Dad driving and me holding on as we traveled. Of course, there was danger…much more than I realized as a child. But I knew my Dad was driving and I felt safe. I didn’t know how to drive then…but I knew how to hold on. I knew nothing about the mechanics of the engine, terrain of the land, road conditions or the task before us. But I knew my Dad was driving. That was all that mattered. We would laugh. We would talk. We would sing. Sometimes he would point out a deer, fox or other country creature along the way. Sometimes we would just enjoy the peaceful moments as we traveled together. Sometimes we got caught in the rain. But I knew my Dad was driving and he would get me safely home. I was always ready to jump on the tractor when Dad asked me to go along. I knew it was going to be an interesting, peaceful and wonderful adventure I could trust because my Dad was driving.
As Tim and I returned home today, he immediately smiled as I glanced at the old tractor and said, “I have a devotion thought about that.” Tim knew my mind was already working and asked how a tractor could be used as a devotion. As I reflected on the wonderful memories of riding that tractor with my Dad, I simply shared with Tim that I never minded the journeys because I knew Dad was driving…and I trusted him completely. Isn’t that how we should travel each step of our journey in this life? I know my Heavenly Father is driving…and leading me Home. I know He is capable of taking care of me no matter how large the obstacles seem, or how loud the noise surrounds us, or if we get caught in the rain, or if the path becomes steep or slippery. I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how to explain the hows of the journey. But one thing I do know is Who is driving and that I trust Him as the journey continues. I may laugh, sing or be silent at times. I may even cry…just as I did when Dad drove me home on the tractor after my bike wreck. Dad wrapped my injured, bloody hand up with his white handkerchief, put me on the tractor and took me home to heal. Thanks, Dad, for all the memories on the tractor. Thank You, God, for leading me on this journey Home to You. I am always grateful when I know I can trust Who is driving.♥~thl
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