Sunday Morning Campfire Reflections
Sunday Morning Campfire Reflection - as told by Lane Street, the man in the white hat
Mornin’, friend. There’s somethin’ about a Sunday dawn that hits a little different. Maybe it’s the way the sky lets go of the night slow and gentle, like a man settin’ down a burden he’s been carryin’ too long.
Maybe it’s the way the fire crackles a little softer, like it knows today ain’t just another notch on the calendar.
Sunday’s the day the trail dust settles…The day a man can finally hear his own heartbeat without the world hollerin’ over it.
Most weeks, I ride hard and sleep light. Folks in trouble don’t exactly make appointments, and shadows don’t announce themselves before they fall. But come Sunday morning, out here by the fire, I remember somethin’ I’m prone to forget—
- A man ain’t meant to save the world.
- Just walk with the One who already did.
So I pour myself a cup of coffee strong enough to wake the dead, tip my hat toward heaven, and let the peace roll in like a slow river.
I reckon God doesn’t speak louder on Sundays… we just finally get quiet enough to listen.
The Bible? - Well, it’s my trail map.
Prayer? - That’s how I check in with the Trail Boss.
And Sunday? Sunday is the day I hand back the reins I keep snatchin’ away all week long.
So if this morning finds you weary, or wanderin’, or carryin’ more weight than your saddle was built for, pull up close to the fire.
Warm your hands. Rest your soul.
The Lord’s already awake.
And He’s mighty fond of meetin’ folks right where they sit — ash on their boots, dust in their beards, questions on their lips.
He’s met me here more times than I can count.
So here’s my Sunday reminder, whispered through the sparks floatin’ into a brand-new sky:
-You don’t have to outrun yesterday.
- You just have to walk with Jesus today.
And if you’re lookin’ for my old pardner, Ray, and his bride, Anne, this mornin’, you’ll find ’em down at church.
They’d be glad to see you.
Tell ’em I said, “Hey.”
See you on the trail,
—Lane Street