The Open Heart of the World

O Lord, art a shield for me 

Embrace me with thy armor 

Hast put joy in my ardor 

Make thy way straight before me 

Offer my trust in the Lord 

Have mercy upon me Lord 

I am weak: O Lord, heal me 

Ye hath heard my voice weeping 

Hear my voice in the morning 

Multitude of thy mercy 

Harken unto thee I ask 

Save me for thy mercies' sake 

Let me be joyful in thee 

Let my trust in thee rejoice 

Let me ever shout for joy 

Lay me down in peace, safety 

Lay my honor in the sand 

Lay my wickedness to end 

I was very young when my father came before the dawn. “Wake up little girl, you’re coming with me, don’t say anything to anybody, and hurry up getting dressed I’m ready to go now!” We drove a good two hours or more in silence. We turned off the interstate and onto a gravel road going nowhere encased in sleek black water everywhere. The morning mist clung on the shadowy cypress trees and dawn was just a thought. We eventually parked beside a shack no bigger than a small trailer with a peach streak on the horizon. The landing beside it was a couple of sheets of plywood flung across the bank, nothing in sight but water lilies on both sides of the road. My father said, “I bought you because I wanted you to see what the world should be like. Don’t tell anyone I brought you, they will not understand. Stay right beside me; don’t step away from my side, not even once! And don’t talk to anyone!” I thought, “Who, there is no one here!” 

We stepped inside the shack, I learned what was an adult bayou shanty bar. All day I stood beside my father the gunsmith at the bar working on gun after gun. The little tattered army-green sack magically held all the parts every gun needed to be fixed on the spot. Men came and went, but only the married women stepped through the bar leaving their children at the door. The men wore strap handled tall boots, britches, loose white shirts, and a gun lay over their arm. The women wore only calico print dresses, literally. With each new group of children left at the door one would spy me and speak out bravely, begrudgingly, “Why is she in there?” Each received a slap from the closest adult and told in some form. “She’s from the bank of the open heart of the world, tarry on else where’s!”  

We left at dusk with my father carrying his tattered oil stained bag and a tall handmade stool of cypress. Well down the road my father said. “I really hated telling them this was my last time I could come fix their guns. Your mother doesn’t understand how important it is for them for me to come. I don’t mind, all I got paid for my trouble is this stool. They threw in a crabapple string necklace for you, because they have never seen a female be still and silent all day before. I can’t let you have it; I’ll have to give it to your mother.” I replied, “I didn’t know we are from the open heart of the world?” Firmly my father answered, “We’re not!” Then his tone softened, “It’s the spillway’s opening into Pontchartrain before a lot of the flux routes were land locked. It’s just their way of saying we are from the south and do not live in a cypress wallow.” A good while passed and my father spoke all he knew about their outlandish ways. I could hear it in his voice, his respect and admiration for their courage to live by what God provides! 

Scripture Reading: Psalms 3-7