Under the Wings and Around the Porch

Through most of my childhood, I could tell you where I would be on Memorial Day, Labor Day, and several days in December: up in Bland County at my grandfather’s homeplace.

We called it the hunting cabin.

There were about fifty acres on top of a mountain, and getting there required four-wheel drive and a reasonable amount of confidence in whoever was driving. The area around the cabin was beautiful. Most of the rest of the property was rocks and steep hillside.

If you dropped something, you needed to grab it quick or pick it up at the bottom of the mountain.

There wasn’t any running water, but we had a spring. There wasn’t any electricity, but we had a gas stove and gas lights. And somehow, without all the things we consider necessary today, we managed to eat well, laugh a lot, and enjoy being together.

We went up several times a year to maintain the place. We cut weeds, mowed grass, cleared fallen trees, and worked on whatever needed fixing. Owning a cabin in the mountains sounds relaxing until you realize the mountain spends the weeks between visits trying to take the cabin back.

Most trips involved plenty of work. December was different because it was hunting season—although, depending on how far you had to walk, that could turn into work too.

But no matter the season, evenings were my favorite.

After the work was finished, we would take what we called an “airplane bath.”

For those unfamiliar with mountain hygiene, that’s where you take a washcloth, wash under the wings and up the tail, and declare yourself ready for supper.

You might not have been clean enough for surgery, but you were presentable enough for beans.

After supper, we gathered on the porch or inside the cabin, depending on the temperature. And that was when the stories started.

Some came from Dad. Some from an uncle. Then an aunt would chime in, occasionally correcting a detail that the storyteller had apparently improved over the years.

That’s one benefit of telling family stories with the whole family present. Somebody usually remembers what actually happened.

I heard about the old water wheel up the holler past the cabin. My great-uncle Hank Shrader had built it when he was young and rigged it to an car alternator so the house could have a couple of lightbulbs.

Granddad said when it rained, you could see real good.

When the creek got low, things got pretty dark. A dry spell meant everybody went to bed early.

Another great-uncle described the original house where my grandfather grew up. According to him, it had so many gaps that you could sit in the kitchen and watch a rooster walk all the way around the house.

Now, that’s an open floor plan.

Folks today pay extra for natural light and ventilation. Apparently, our family was ahead of its time.

But the stories weren’t all funny.

I heard about my great-grandmother waking up some mornings without knowing what she would feed her children. They ate a lot of beans and yard greens. What I might have walked past without noticing, she knew how to gather and put on the table.

Those stories helped me understand the worry and work behind meals that another generation might have taken for granted.

Then there were the rock walls scattered across the hillsides. As a child, I could look at those walls and just see rocks. But one of my great-uncles would look at them, laugh, and say, “My fingerprints and sweat are on every one of those rocks.”

After hearing that, I saw them differently.

Those walls represented hours of somebody’s life. Somebody had bent down, picked up those stones, carried them, and fitted them into place, to make a field to plant some corn to try to survive.

Sitting there listening, I began to know my family more deeply. I learned what made them laugh, what they had endured, and what they had worked hard to provide.

Some stories were history. Some were hilarious. Some taught lessons that have stayed with me all my life.

And none of that would have happened if we had finished supper and everybody disappeared into a separate room.

I’m thankful I know those stories. But I wonder how many stories we’re missing today because we rarely sit still long enough to hear them.

We can tell you what somebody we’ve never met ate for lunch, yet we may not know what’s weighing on the heart of somebody sitting across our own table.

We keep up with news feeds, schedules, ballgames, messages, and activities. Our calendars are full, and our conversations can become little more than figuring out who needs to be where and what time we have to leave.

We love our people. Sometimes we’re just moving too fast to know them well.

Scripture gives us a reason to slow down.

Psalm 78:4 calls God’s people to tell the coming generation about the Lord’s glorious deeds and mighty works. Deuteronomy 6:6–7 describes teaching God’s Word in the ordinary moments of life—sitting at home, walking along the way, lying down, and getting up.

That kind of teaching requires shared time. Children need to hear how God has been faithful. They need to hear about answered prayers, hard seasons, repentance, forgiveness, and the lessons we learned when we thought we knew more than we did.

And we need enough honesty to tell them those last stories too.

Knowing family history doesn’t replace knowing Scripture. But our stories can give us opportunities to explain how God’s truth meets us in real life.

We can tell them what we worried about, then talk about trusting the Lord. We can admit where we failed, then tell them about His mercy. We can remember the people who helped us and show them what loving a neighbor looks like.

James 1:19 tells us to be quick to hear and slow to speak. That’s good counsel for a front porch, a kitchen table, or a conversation with a child who takes fourteen minutes to explain something that happened in three.

Sometimes love means staying interested through all fourteen.

Romans 12:10 tells us to love one another with brotherly affection and to outdo one another in showing honor. Giving someone our attention is one practical way to show that honor.

We communicate, “Your life matters to me. I want to understand you.”

That applies to our friends and church family too. Galatians 6:2 tells us to bear one another’s burdens. We need time together to discover what those burdens are.

A hurried “How are you?” while we’re already walking away doesn’t leave much room for an honest answer.

Jesus made room for people. He welcomed children when the disciples wanted to move them along (Mark 10:13–16). He listened and asked questions. And when Martha became distracted with much serving, He reminded her of the value of sitting at His feet and hearing His word (Luke 10:38–42).

There was work to do at that cabin. Plenty of it.

But I’m thankful the work eventually stopped and the chairs came out.

I needed those evenings. I needed to hear the laughter and the hard stories. I needed to know the people whose lives helped shape mine.

Maybe your family needs a little front porch time too.

You don’t have to own a porch. A kitchen table will work. So will a couple of lawn chairs, a ride with the radio turned off, or supper with the phones put away.

Ask somebody about their childhood. Ask your parents or grandparents what life was like before you came along. Ask a friend what the Lord has been teaching them. Give your children room to talk, and listen long enough to hear what’s underneath the first answer.

Then tell them your stories.

Tell them about the people who helped you. Tell them what hardship taught you. Tell them where you were wrong and how God showed you grace.

And above all, tell them about the Lord.

Deuteronomy 4:9 urges God’s people to remember what they had seen and make it known to their children and their children’s children.

Tell your children’s children.

They may remember the story about a rooster walking around a drafty house. They will probably remember the airplane bath.

But by God’s grace, they may also remember that you made time for them, listened to them, and taught them to trust the Lord.

I look back now, and I’m grateful for those evenings on that mountain.

The creeks might get low, and the lights might get dim. But sitting with family, we can learn to see a whole lot.