(Sherrie St. Hilaire Photography)

There’s plenty of time for pondering and ruminating on a 6,800-mile road trip. So I do.

We stay on the back roads when we travel. Back roads offer an older version of life; life the way it was before Big Box gobbled up Mom n’ Pop; when time was more a slow waltz than an ER code blue.

For three weeks I have been viewing some absurdly spectacular views, iconic cities, sprawling farmland, popular attractions, historic battlegrounds, famous monuments and chatting with interesting people.

There are thousands upon thousands of decomposing homes, farms and businesses dotting the prairies and planes of this nation, peppering the backwoods and hillsides of this land where dreams are made of. As we pass I picture them in their robust years—when a dream, some ambition and a lot of hard work hit the right note and made a mark.

Little towns like Kennear, Wyoming–population 40—appear out of nowhere and I wonder: How do they do life here?

How do we do life anywhere?

Life lived in 1730 and life lived in 2015 have many things in common. People then, as people now, whether carving out a nation or carving out a name for themselves, are prone to fixing our eyes and placing our hearts on the temporary right now.

While we are building and accumulating and striving and feuding we forget that the end result will be, at best, a study in decomposition. As is evident in cemetery after cemetery across this land, time will not only claim our lives and erode our kingdoms; it will eat away the name and epitaph of the very stone that marked our existence.


As Psalms says, “Even the memory of them will vanish.”

I get it. We have to occupy, right? We can’t just sit on our haunches and wait for our heavenly home and eternal gloriousness. God placed within us dreams and callings; He made us in his image as creators and called us to inhabit.

Traveling reminds me that life really is a sojourn in temporariness. Those of us who journey in Christ are reminded that we actually do just have this 1 day and that the big picture is much grander than we imagine. Cloistered in our castles and kingdoms, striving to make our mark in this world we can easily forget that our soul’s were made for the world to come.

At nearly 10,000 feet a road winds toward the Grand Tetons. The sun illuminates the eastern face of these stone mountains. We stop at the Continental Divide and I am reminded of the brave pioneers who pushed through this way on unpaved trails in an untamed wilderness. They pressed toward a dream against elements and limits, they lost lives and limbs because in them was what is in us. We are longing for a place our hearts call home.

But home is not here. Wherever it is you call home, it’s just a meager sampling of what we were created for–a citizenship and kingdom not made with hands, a treasure this world can’t measure, where our identity is not contained in skin.

This 22-day road trip has been full of reminders about dwellings. Living in 220 square feet reminds me that I don’t need much and the much I receive isn’t measured or marked by worldly standards. My home is in Him–wholly and fully in Him. The only mark that truly matters is the mark on his palms—where he has the whole of creation held until that day we shake off the dust of this life, this planet, this universe and we see Him face to face.

What lies within us is the pulsing gestation of our eternal home.



Let’s live every second of our lives with every cell of our being. Let’s dream. And build. And discover. Let’s push the envelope. Let’s redefine normal. Let’s add words to the dictionary. Let’s lay down new roads and raise the bar for the next generation. Let’s write our name in granite. Let’s leave a legacy of grace.

(Sherrie St. Hilaire Photography)

He is our dwelling place, our only true home.

I want to fill my lungs with the atmosphere of His presence and leave my mark written with indelible grace.



A big storm caused by hurricane Joaquin hit the east coast while we were in the city of Brotherly Love eating a Philly Cheese Steak. The skies darkened and dumped rain on all the places we were headed along Hwy 40.

We made Knoxville after dark and pulled into Wal-Mart for the night. Yes, people actually do this. There’s always a little neighborhood to welcome you after the sun goes down.

The Nashville skyline appeared the next afternoon but we drove straight through. Who gets to Nashville and doesn’t stop? We do. It was the rain. It was lack of planning. It was getting there late. It was tourist-weariness. But mostly it was just us. I phone-snapped a fuzzy pic of Music City from the freeway. With the Grand Ole Opry in our review mirror I began berating myself. What is wrong with you? You should have stopped! I swiped at watery eyes.


We found a two-laner and headed northwest. Incredible scenery spilled out in all directions–think Kentucky Derby– but I learned my lesson in Lancaster and kept my camera out of arms reach.

Sometimes, most times, it’s just best to soak it all in unencumbered with devices.

Around 5:00 PM we crossed the border where Tennessee and Kentucky rub shoulders. A mile into Kentucky we came upon a sleepy little town. Giant red letters were splayed unprofessionally across the town’s retired grain elevators:



Adairville could have been Mayberry at one time but most of the Opie’s have moved to Nashville. Churches outnumbered businesses still in operation and from the looks of things the population was holding onto the remnants of the thin remnants of a once thriving town. Castello’s Cafe flashed an OPEN sign. We looked over at each other, shrugged our shoulders and made a wordless decision to step inside.

I would absolutely love to tell you all about this relic place that looked part cafe and part someone’s family kitchen. It had all the fodder for an entire book. I can only tell you that it’s been a long time since I’ve eaten in a restaurant where cigarette smoke curled up from amber ashtrays and I’ve never eaten fried green tomatoes made by a pregnant gal wearing Sponge Bob pajama bottoms and an animal print tank top.

The narrow room held a dozen tables, two were occupied. The wait staff –and their family–sat near the kitchen and cash register playing dominos, smoking cigarettes and watching the Tennessee Volunteers battle it out on the gridiron against the Arkansas Razorbacks.

An elderly trio sat near the entrance away from the smoke. We sat ourselves near them and puzzled over the menu, not wondering what to eat so much as if we should eat. The Saturday special was hamburger steak, slaw and green friend tomatoes. We ordered two.

It was clear we weren’t locals. The little lady whose chin disappeared into her neck asked if we had come from Nashville for the Gospel Tones. One meal and a bunch of small talk later we found ourselves seated in the Living Word Church just around the corner.


The front door of the church could have been a time-travel portal. I was immediately transported into my past, among saintly old saints from my younger years in a dozen small churches. My nostrils filled with the scent of lemon polish, mothballs and vintage perfume. Sister this and brother that, hand shakes and howdys–the room buzzed with the warmth of fellowship and anticipation. A crooked old gentleman topped with a thin comb-over greeted us warmly. His thick southern accent dripped a honey smooth hello.

We took our seats among the country gathering of unadorned folks. I fought back tears of nostalgia, stung by how fast this ol’ globe spins our nows into yesterdays. Baritone-voiced Pastor Phil started the meeting off with a couple throw back worship songs that brought a thousand memories into view.

A grey-headed southern gospel quartet took the stage. Their drummer had recorded several songs with Elvis and had been inducted into the Musicians hall of fame. For decades they’d been singing southern gospel songs all through the Bible belt and were still raising goose flesh on their audiences. From the beginning their notes of close harmony rang rich through the air and immediately leveled my weak tear-levy. For two hours we stomped and clapped and laughed and cried. Lyrics about heaven and Jesus swaddled our news-ragged hearts.

And then it became clear. We weren’t just Bob and Sherrie from Washington State who didn’t know how to do Nashville, who were too early for the autumn colors and too late for the Delaware River tours. We weren’t just scenery hoarders with a cache of blurry pictures or unsophisticated tourists collecting brochures and trinkets.

We were members of God’s family sitting among family in a town called Adairville. We were enjoying the sweet presence of Jesus in a rural setting and being reminded that not only does He truly guide each step of the way, HE IS THE WAY!

It’s a great land we live in and whether or not you see giant red letters painted bold across your world,

JESUS CHRIST IS indeed LORD, and Soon and very soon we are going to see the King!