There’s something about being born or raised in Texas that I suspect is fundamentally different than being raised anywhere else, at least in the United States.
By the time one gets through with first grade, some truths are well grounded …
· That the Yellow Rose of Texas is the real national anthem.
· That Thanksgiving is a day the nation takes off to watch our Cowboys play.
· That you always should say “yee haw” when you cross the Red River.
· That the Lone Star symbolizes the fact that we were our own country first and chose to join the United States (aren’t yawl lucky?).
· And, that you don’t mess with Texas.
Simply put, most folks from Texas are proud to be called Texan.
That didn’t happen by accident. You see deep the heart of Texas stands a tiny mission outpost that symbolizes Texas. It’s the Alamo, one of America’s most sacred symbols.
I remember going there often as a kid. Every time, before we opened the doors to walk inside I remember my dad, mom or some other adult saying, “Before we go in, there’s something you need to know about the Alamo.” They would proceed to tell us about the men who knowingly and willingly gave their lives at the Alamo because they knew that in so doing the people of Texas would soon be set free to become their own nation, to pursue their own dreams. “That is why,” my parent or guide would conclude, “that we respect what they have done for us by remaining quiet or only whispering as we walk through these grounds.”
And you could have heard a pin drop.
Many centuries earlier, an even greater story of courage played out … another warrior took his stand. Not in a mission fortress that time, but on a lonely hill. And for those who would follow him and be proud to be called Christian.
Yet it seems odd that as we visit his house to honor his gift, that we give less respect to him than do those who visit the Alamo. We rarely, if ever it seems, pause before entering God’s house to say, “before we go in, there’s something I need to tell you about this place.” The natural and welcomed cry of a child aside, have we ever been quiet enough to hear a pin drop? Or still enough in spirit to give undivided focus to anthems of praise?
I remember grabbing my dad’s hand once when I witnessed someone talking aloud in Alamo and whispering into his ear, “They don’t know dad, do they?” I remember him replying, “Maybe they don’t understand.”
Remember the Alamo.
Remember the Cross.