In My Brother's House by John Monday

My family is from the hills, hollers, caves and coal mines of southeast Kentucky, and the unique, rich Appalachian culture of that region has permeated my life, though I’ve never lived there.  Our family moved to Florida when I was just weeks old, and even though we never returned there to live, it has always been considered home.  

The 20-mile stretch of U.S. 27 between Burnside and Stearns was the place where life began and ended.  Like my own children, I loved to return there and play in the caves, creeks, forests, mountains, and lakes of my parents’ youth. Every summer, many Christmases, a few weddings, and too many funerals had our family car heading to Kentucky.  

It was for me an eternal place - the place we could always go, the place that everyone would always come back to, and the place where nothing ever changed.  There were dozens of cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and even great grandparents. We spent days on end running, playing, and visiting in the places of our ancestors. It made me feel like I was part of a big family.  

What I didn’t realize as a child was that, with little work or opportunity in the region, our’s wasn't the only family that was drifting away.  People began to see opportunities for a better life, and they left - many with the intention of returning after making their fortune. Some returned . . . briefly. Some stayed . . . for awhile.  But despite the beauty of the mountains and streams and the deep connection to the land, there was less and less family living there and more family returning for visits. As people grew and aged, those visits became more sporadic, and the “eternity” of the place began to fade.

Enter Larry and his cabin. In 1986 my brother, Larry, with the help of my father, built a cabin on Lake Cumberland in the Daniel Boone National Forest. The cabin was located right in the middle of the region that our family had called home for generations. I had no idea at the time how valuable that cabin would be.

My brother loves family, which might be a little incongruous at first given the fact that he’s never had one of his own, meaning he’s never been married and never had any children. But nonetheless, he loves his family. He is the family historian, genealogist, storyteller and connector, and he knows everybody - living and dead. He never tires of studying his people and bringing them together.  

As there were fewer relatives living in the area, his cabin became the place to go and to meet.  Not only did it become a place for those we knew who had been displaced, but it became a place to meet new friends and family.  There were many late nights of old people telling stories. There were grandparents walking in the woods with grandchildren, uncles teaching nephews how to shoot .22s off the porch, cast iron corn bread, and there was singing . . . lots of singing. Larry’s deep conviction that we should all be connected to each other and the place of our heritage meant “family” that I had never met gathered at the cabin. Family that had never spent time in Kentucky came, and the remnant of the family that had never left came.  His construction of that cabin combined with his love of family to enrich the lives of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of us for decades.  Many of my best memories are there.  

In Tim Keller’s book, The Prodigal God, he describes the relationship between two brothers.  The elder brother in the story was not a real elder brother because, while he was a brother in flesh, he never sought the younger brother’s good. He wasn’t interested in redeeming the younger brother, and he had no desire to repair the broken relationship (Luke 15:11-32).  But Keller explains that we have a true elder brother.  One that has given up everything to restore the broken relationship between us, his adopted brothers, and our father, the eternal God.

Our true elder brother tells us:

² In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. ³ And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also.  John 14:2-4

While I’m thankful for Larry, his cabin, and the memories and relationships that have been forged there, it’s not eternal. There are only a very few of our family that live in the area today, and it will become harder for Larry and his cabin to draw and preserve those relationships. But it serves as a foreshadowing of another brother. The one Tim Keller describes as our true elder brother, and the place he’s preparing where . . .

 . . . neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, ³⁹ neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.  Romans 8: 38-39

In much the same way that Kentucky has always felt like a home where I’ve never lived, we are all drawn to a home we’ve never seen. A home where we revel in relationships old and new. A home that seems unattainable yet is prepared by the one who loves us most. A home not just on the horizon, but one we can have today. Our father’s home, prepared by our true elder brother, and closer than our next breath.

John Monday