"Sycamore . . .
Whenever the weather was bad and the unpaved road even worse, Dad packed all 4 of us in the car and we took the ridge road.
"At a certain point we pulled into a country lane, Dad parked the car and we gathered our belongings and hiked down the hollow along the creek to Sycamore -- no matter the weather!
"Sycamore was our father's ancestral home -- the big white house along Sycamore Creek with a long porch spanning the entire front of the house.
"But it was not the house itself that drew us there so much as the 3 who dwelled within its walls -- Uncle Doc, Aunt Lura, and Aunt Millie -- Dad's brother, sister-in-law, and sister.
"There we were welcomed, enveloped with hugs and love, provided with wonderful food and a great warmth from the big gas fireplace.
"Ever since our mother's death when the 4 of us were young, this place and these dear persons drew us like magnets on weekends and especially at Christmas. For it was here that we all, Dad included, received nurture and encouragement for the week back in town in the house devoid of mother and wife.
"Sycamore was pretty close to heaven for us kids, for the bounty of the love found there was given unabashedly and without reservation; and where love is, there Christ dwells.
"As we children grew older we knew we had a glimpse of the magnitude of God's love for all humanity when He gave His son as a babe in human skin. Hallelujah!"