The Mark That Is Left Behind

I recently looked at the calendar and realized the inevitable end of summer is upon us. Kaleb and the boys of fall are ramping up their football practices in preparation for Friday night showdowns. Kayleigh and her teammates are perfecting their cheer routines for their contribution to the ambiance at the gridiron gatherings. Food plots are being prepared, bows are getting tuned up, and power lines are being watched to determine how many doves have made it to the area. In a couple of weeks, the sound of shotguns will be heard as many of us will pursue the elusive winged delicacy in hopes of a plate full of tasty jalapeno dove poppers. We are less than one month away from the opening day of Missouri’s archery deer season. Once that day is upon us, we will have the green light to chase after the star of our camouflage dreams. If not already, soon it will be known if those hit-lister bucks made it through the year and we will assume the role for those cold front showdowns.

Fall always brings the excitement of cooler temperatures, comradery, and new adventures. As the best time of year approaches, my family recently took the opportunity to take a week off and go on vacation. It is undoubtedly a week set aside to unplug from the daily grind and create some memories apart from the impending hectic schedules of the fall. After Steph and the kids worked hard to get us all packed, we jumped in the car and headed east towards the Great Smoky Mountains. Great family memories were made as we enjoyed the beautiful scenes of nature and some of the man-made sites of the area. At Kaleb’s request, we made a stop at the Louisville Slugger Museum and Factory. For Kayleigh, we visited Alcatraz East, which is a museum full of information on the history of crime and law enforcement agencies. Steph and I simply enjoyed the peace and solitude of the beautiful cabin. The peaceful surroundings that were available from the deck as I sat each morning drinking my tasty Black Rifle coffee was incredible.

The highlight of the trip for me was probably our time on the Cades Cove Loop. There were several things that happened there that created some incredible memories for our family. However, it was our stop at three old churches that made perhaps the deepest impression with me.

A couple of years ago, a friend had shared a video of their visit to the old Methodist church on the Cades Cove Loop. While in the church, she sang a worship song that inexplicably left a significant impression on me. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, but I immediately knew something about that place that was special. While watching that video, I decided I needed to experience that special church in person. At the encouragement of Stephanie and the kids, I had packed my guitar on this trip just in case the opportunity presented itself to sing a worship song in that old church. Fortunately, we were able to visit the church and I was undone upon walking across the nearly two century old threshold. I can’t imagine the stories those church walls could tell if they found their voices.

There were four strangers in the church who left shortly after our arrival. We were left alone and found ourselves walking around the old church. I couldn’t help touching each of the old church pews, wondering who might have sat there over the years. I yearned for some avenue to learn of the stories of their life. With an unknown nervousness despite the absence of an audience, I realized my son, Kaleb, had retrieved my guitar from the trunk of our Explorer. Not only was I not seeking an audience, but the absence of one was also somewhat mandatory for me venturing into song. I began to lightly pick at the strings of my Taylor guitar and pulled up one of my favorite worship songs. Shortly after beginning to sing the song, I understood why that place was special. The simplicity of a solitary man, his family, a guitar, and a grateful heart full of worship merged together in this simple place to form something special. There is no knowing how many had engaged in this exact process in this simple old church with no need for high tech sound systems, no electricity, or an audience. This was just a simple room full of simple people who recognized that God was all that mattered.

I can’t put it into words as to how special that moment was. As I came to the end of the song, I looked up and saw that about 30 people had entered the church unnoticed by me while I was singing. Some had chosen to sing along while others had recorded the moment on their phones. Regardless of how they chose to experience the moment, I believe all of them got a glimpse of how special that place could be. Three kind women approached my daughter, Kayleigh, and said, “Tell your daddy thank you, that’s just what we needed today.” Everything came together to touch others and myself in a way that wasn’t anticipated or planned. That old church is simply special.

Along with our visit to the Methodist church, we visited an old Primitive Baptist Church located just off the beaten path on the Cades Cove Loop. We had the opportunity to visit with a gentleman who was providing information on the churches. As he spoke, I just soaked all the information in, again wondering about all the stories that old Baptist church would have had to tell. An unforgettable moment in that church was when the gentleman encouraged us to look at the ceiling. Initially, I was unsure what I was looking for, but he told us how the fathers and their sons in this rural settlement came together to build it. During construction, they had used green lumber that had not had the time to dry down. After being laid in its final resting place, the wood dried and was stained. This process left the handprints of the men and their young sons preserved in the planks used to roof the church. The incredible men of faith had literally left their fingerprints on a house of worship that that has and will continue to minister to generations.

These men and their sons literally left their mark. In that moment, I got lost in my thoughts wondering what marks I would leave. It also challenged me to ask what marks I am teaching my children to leave for the generations after we are all gone. Time will always tell if our literal or figurative marks will inspire people that we will never meet. I doubt the men and sons that built that church had known that in the year 2022, I’d be looking up at the marks that they had left and that it would impact me the way that it did. I have no way to know how many marks I will leave in this world, if any – marks left as a husband, father, friend, believer of Jesus, or just a simple, small-town guy. We will all leave marks in some form. Some marks are intentional and others not. Some marks are obvious, and others are more subtle. We would all be wise to learn from the fathers and sons who built these churches, if we are going to leave a mark, let’s leave a special one. We should all be sure that all the marks for good aren’t missing our fingerprints. We may never know who will be impacted by the mark that is left behind.