*Here is a reflection on home. It’s not complete. It’s not perfect. It will get worked and worked like the pizza dough my family makes on Friday nights. You’ll see it again in a different form. Thought I’d share the current version with you now.

David, the king poet, once penned, “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places (Psalm 16:6).” I could say the same.

The Lord called me to be a pastor and he called me to pastor in a particular place. The house I live in was built by a pastor. Pastor Ken faithfully served a church in our community for two decades. In retirement, he joined my church, sold me his house, and moved to Missouri. He has recently moved onto his Heavenly reward. I consider it a privilege to raise my kids in the house he designed.

The house is a bit quirky. Pastor Ken did not want to fully rely on the grid, so half the house runs on propane. The backyard is equipped with a small door that opens to the back of the garage. It allows you to roll out a grill and hook it up to the gas line from the house. There is also a full-sized exterior window next to our fireplace which looks into a sunroom. You just need to see it. Come visit and check it out. My favorite part of the house is the room above the garage that Pastor Ken used as an office. It is my favorite place to read books and play vinyl records.

I share my house with Katie. To steal a line from Alexander Hamilton, she is “the best of wives and best of women.” Our daughter, Abigail, is named after a woman described as beautiful and intelligent (1 Samuel 25:3). Our son, Wesley, is named after a preacher. I settled on “Wesley” before I even had a wife. In seminary I read a collection of John Wesley sermons which began with a quote from his journal, “My tongue is a devoted thing.” Then and there I sensed it was a good name for a son.

My house sits on a corner of a street named after the family who developed the neighborhood. I live on Cody Circle but many refer to the whole neighborhood as Codyville.

Just down the road from my house are two enormous cows. No, really. Cows as large as a house. They are monuments to all things dairy. I recently visited New York City – a city known for skyscrapers, bridges, and the statue of liberty. Nice – but I didn’t see a single house-sized cow. These landmark cows stand out front of the Southwest Dairy Museum. The museum stands out front of the local high school. Some would want it noted that the High School football team won the Texas 4A Division 2 State Championship in 2008. We’re ready for another. We’re waiting. Patiently.

My house is in a town named Sulphur Springs. Despite the name, it smells just fine. It was founded as Bright Star in the late 1840’s by pioneers who camped and made their homes near the more than 100 natural springs. In 1871, it was renamed to market the area as a health resort due to the “healing waters.” I would have gone with “Healing Springs,” but “Sulphur” allows us to correct people when they write it down as “Sulfur.”

Sulphur Springs is the county seat of Hopkins County. The county was once known as the nation’s dairy capital. Many dairies have moved elsewhere but relics of days gone by keep nostalgia fresh. The Dairy Festival began in 1959 and includes a parade, hot air balloons, milking contests, and the naming of the Dairy Festival Queen. I personally know a Dairy Queen or two. Sulphur Springs has a rhythm – Dairy Festival in the early Summer and Stew Contest in the late Fall.

Held in October, the Stew Contest features hundreds of teams cooking famous Hopkins County Stew in cast iron pots over open wood fires. Each team must cook on site and prepare a minimum of 10 gallons so that there is ample stew for judges and spectators. The day of the contest looks like a scene from the Civil War with pots, fires, and people scattered as far as the eye can see.

Speaking of the Civil War, don’t allow me to leave the impression that Sulphur Springs is a mystical land perfect for a small town romantic comedy. There are dark corners now, and there have been dark corners in the past.

Not far from local shops and restaurants downtown sits the Union Stockade historical marker.  The marker reads:

The Reconstruction era which followed the Civil War (1861-65) was a time of unrest in Texas. In this area a gang of outlaws whipped and killed blacks and harassed other citizens. On August 10, 1868, Capt. T. M. Tolman brought Federal troops here to restore order. Despite protests the army moved the county seat from Tarrant (4 mi. N) to Sulphur Springs. After the hotel where officers were staying was set afire, a stockade was built. Surrounded by a split log fence, it served as post quarters, hospital, jail, stable, and kitchen. It was abandoned in 1870 when Federal troops withdrew.

It’s never been a perfect place. It’s not perfect now. People get divorced, get fired, cheat the tax man, and abuse children. But it is home. And I like it.

It’s not house-sized cows that make Sulphur Springs home. It’s the people. It’s the folks who spend Friday nights at the Prim yelling for the Wildcats. It’s the kids showing chickens at the livestock auction. It’s the bank teller and restaurant server who greet you by name. It’s the players of the community theatre. It’s the teacher who spends extra hours on the weekend getting the lesson plans together. It’s the shift workers at Clayton Homes, Saputo, Ocean Spray, and Grocery Supply who keep the economy moving forward. It’s the faithful people changing diapers at First Baptist Church.

Thomas Wolfe famously wrote, “Home is the place you cannot return to.  You can’t go home again.” Robert Frost heard these sentiments.  He pondered them.  He turned them over. Robert Frost replied, “Home is the place, when you go there, they have to take you in.”

… I’ll stick with Frost on this one.