My church is the earth. Through the trails I walk, the birds I hear, and the wind I feel. A long time ago my Uncle Mack told me his tabernacle was nature. An imperfect man, Mack seemed to enjoy his own company over people. Not that he wasn’t friendly, just quiet and reflective. A solid man with more demons then he’d care to recall. A gentle man that I would dare not cross.
I grew up in the suburbs of Savannah, hung out a lot down on the Ogeechee River. But still a city boy at heart. When I moved my young family up here to Central Georgia in 1994, my Grandma and Uncle Mack were the rocks we leaned on. When Granny died, Mack took on an even more important the role. Over the years I learned a lot from that man. His philosophy on nature and God, how to hunt, how to just enjoy the quiet, and how to be compassionate to the world around me.
It’s been a years since Mack passed away, but when I walk a trail and catch the sound of a passing whitetail; I cannot help but remember. The quiet serenity I learned from just sitting still and letting life give me it’s lessons. I don’t claim to be much of religious man, although I was well indoctrinated. But with mediation and the quieting of my fearful mind. I learned to see how the human soul is tied directly to the earth. For we rose from the ashes of the ground and one day we will return.