A Smoky Mountain lesson

The Great Smoky Mountains got their name from the smoke-like fog that hangs over the range after a rainfall. Today was no different. The peaks were completely shrouded by plumes of misty clouds.  In the valley below, a young man drove through the cemetery, looking for a particular grave in a sea of stones.  He put his van in park and kissed his wife.  This was a journey he had to take alone.  He rustled the hair of his sons and stepped out into the humid evening.  A violent thunderstorm had rolled through the valley a hour ago, leaving the air thick and the grass wet.  His foot sunk in the mud as he took his first steps towards the grave.  His destination was 30 yards give or take a few steps.

When he arrived at the headstone, he laid the flowers down at the foot of the grave. He then ran his fingers across the name.  The name of his grandfather.

He kneeled down and felt the water soak through his pant leg.  He closed his eyes and began to speak.

“I didn’t listen to you.  I was arrogant.  And I thought I knew more than you. I saw how the Great Depression changed you.  After you survived it, you forever lived beneath your means.  You believed in charity but you also believed in hard work.  You never complained.  You just did. And then you gave. I betrayed all that. I was slothful. I took. I was reckless with my money. I only thought of myself. Today and forever more, I pray your spirit will guide me. That I can live by your example. By your strong example of faith.  Your principles are as timeless as the mountains behind me.  Please. Please.”

He stood up and said one more time, “Please.”

Thunder rumbled gently from the direction of the mountains.  Fingers of light broke through the clouds and illuminated the graveyard. Light shined off the polished marble stones as the man with the wet knee walked slowly back to his family.  The Great Recession had changed another man for the better.  And somewhere his grandfather smiled.