Old Familiar Ground

We're on old familiar ground, a grandma and grandpa motel deep in the Smoky Mountains, simple fare, bed and dresser with the low metal heater on the window.  I sit by the light of the sun and Betty by the old bed lamp each reading our Bible.  We always stay here when we come for rest and quiet.  It’s out of the way, passed up by the hard commercial crust crumbling at the edge of the mountains, a hidden spot with only a few rooms, one of which is always available.  When you check in they give you a coffee pot, a faded newspaper of local fare, the old metal key with the room number on the diamond shaped piece of plastic and a warm smile from a wrinkled face that says “we’re glad you’re here.”  The only thing they offer is rest and that is the one thing we are always looking for.  I’m glad we’re here too.