The Great Outdoors
Hannah and I were married at The Cottle House in Andalusia, Ala. in 1998, the first “event” ever held at the now well-loved venue. The old house, restored by her parents, George and Brenda Gantt, stood proud on Gantt land, full of vintage charm and Southern grit. George had poured himself into that house- overhauling it, renovating it, shaping it into something beautiful again. A handmade wooden cross he crafted from old fence posts hung above the front porch, marking the very place where Hannah and I would exchange vows. It hangs now on our porch at the lake house- a weathered testament to love, hard work, and sacred promises.
On that hot and muggy day, South Alabama’s weather was living up to its unpredictable reputation. Damp heat clung to the air like a wet sauna towel. I sweat through my shirt before lunchtime. My nerves didn’t help matters, and neither did George. He was a towering figure, physically and otherwise. Dressed in a vintage tuxedo and top hat, he looked like a barrel-chested Doc Holliday who stepped off the set of a Western. When I walked into the hall, there he stood. His hand resting on the grip of a vintage Colt .45 revolver tucked in his waistband. “You ain’t thinking about running, are you boy?” he asked, deadpan. I choked out a laugh, hoping he was kidding. I wasn’t sure. He tapped the revolver, raised an eyebrow, then let his coat fall back into place. “That’s good,” he said and walked away. That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the afternoon.
Moments later, I tried to sip water without drenching myself. In doing so, I accidentally knocked the glass over, and in slow motion, it tumbled down the drawers of Brenda’s antique dresser. With each bounce, water spilled into priceless collections of artwork, postcards, handkerchiefs… irreplaceable Americana, ruined. The glass finally hit the floor and exploded. I panicked. I knew I’d made a mess not just physically, but emotionally- especially if George found out. I called for help, handed out orders, tried to patch things up, and grabbed a couple of dry handkerchiefs from the drawer’s edge. Then I stepped outside, nerves frayed, heart racing. Rick, my college buddy and the minister officiating, followed me out. “You nervous?” he asked with a grin. I nodded. “Me too,” he said, chuckling. “Knock-knock.” Only Rick could tell a joke at a time like that. I laughed, tension broken for a breath or two. Just then, George walked out the back door, flanked by a few men who looked like they’d seen a few bar fights. I braced myself. He looked me over from my sweat-soaked shirt to my panicked eyes. “You nervous, son?” he asked. “No sir,” I croaked. He put a big hand on my shoulder and pulled me close. I could see the steel in his eyes again. I was ready for the lecture- or worse, for him to learn about the waterlogged dresser. Instead, George looked over his glasses, and in a low, steady voice said, “It’s going to be just fine, son. Just relax.” Then he hugged me and added, “I love you, boy.” And just like that, the hurricane inside me stilled.
It wasn’t the heat or the glass or the crowd or the nerves that nearly undid me. It was the weight of expectation, the pressure to be perfect for the woman I loved, and the fear of not being enough. But in George’s embrace- in that moment of grace- I realized something deeply spiritual: I wasn’t doing any of this alone. I never had been. I often think of Jesus’ baptism, when God spoke from heaven: “This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased” (Matthew 3:17). Long before Jesus preached a sermon or performed a miracle, the Father assured Him of His love. Not because of what He had done- but because of who He was. That’s the message George gave me that day. Not “earn it.” Not “prove yourself.” Just “I love you, son.” And it’s the same message God whispers to us every time we feel overwhelmed, unworthy, or unsure: “It’s going to be just fine, child. I love you.” So no, I didn’t run. I married the love of my life under a wooden cross, on a porch full of cotton, surrounded by antique postcards and the sweet scent of gardenias. And I learned that sometimes, the most powerful sermons aren’t preached. They’re lived out in hugs, in grace, in the stillness after the storm. And yes… the very powerful Hurricane George made landfall on the Florida panhandle and swept through our wedding reception like a stampede of wild ponies. Winds rattled tents and dances were cut short. Roads flooded and traffic was chaos… but God does things in His timing. And we had just enough time to say, “I do.” You do too. To Him that is. He loves you and wants to know if you love Him too.
-Walt Merrell
A Christian Outdoorsman who writes of his adventures with his family, with the hope that others might be inspired and encouraged to embrace God’s tapestry, otherwise known as the great outdoors, as a means of finding Common Ground. You can follow him at Shepherding Outdoors on FB, YT and IG and at shepherdingoutdoors.com. His most recent book is available at shepherdingbook.com. Read his faith story at www.BirminghamChristian.com.
