Home.

From the time I got to the Georgia side of Lookout Mountain yesterday, I could literally feel closer to home. 

There was only one thing that could have made the incredible view of seven states from atop the mountain any better...some freshly baked peach cobbler. I love anything peach, and it's been a while, so the prize for a successful ride up the mountain was this delicious treat. 

Then, this morning, a hair-raising ride through the worst traffic with the worst drivers in all of the United States of America. The ATL. Atlanta. 

To the lady with whom I exchanged some fairly inspired non-verbal communication after you almost ran me over around Spring Street on the Downtown Connector, no, my gesture did not mean that you were "number one." And to the guy in the black Toyota who almost ran up my exhaust pipe while evidently taking a phone call from the Pope, or someone equally important, I was not having an involuntary Tourette Syndrome verbal tick episode. What I said about you and your mom was very much intentional. 

It's bad. The Devil is in charge of the road in Atlanta. Baghdad had better drivers. 

Having run that hellish gauntlet successfully, I found myself at a place conversely heavenly...Truett Cathy's beautiful, new Chick-fil-a in Stockbridge. 

There's a statue of Mr. Cathy out front, just like at the original Dwarf Grill in my hometown of Hapeville, where Chick-fil-a began in the late 1940's. I was raised on the stuff. 

They have the little red dwarf door there, too. You just have to do it. 

Here's the story of the original Dwarf Grill and the little red door. Mr. Cathy built an empire from that little diner, and dedicated it all to glorifying God.

During his lifetime he gave a countless amount of money to charities like the Paul Anderson Youth Home, among others, in an effort to  give back and change the lives of others. Talk about making a difference. His treasure in Heaven is no-doubt huge. 

That kind of thing is why I did this ride, to try to make a difference in some small way...to tell folks that God loves them, and to tell them that there are Christians in places all over the world who need our help. It's like being Johnny Appleseed, casting seeds along a path...in gas stations and truckstops, cafes and diners, pubs and biker bars. We all have to find a ministry that sings to who we are. I'm not wired to work in a hospice flower shop. Someone has to go after folks in the rougher places. Hopefully some of those seeds fell on fertile ground. If I helped even one soul who was lonely, or hurting, or lost, it was worth the time, money, and miles. 

If you get a chance to go to a Dwarf House, you can get a glimpse of what Heaven will be like by ordering the hot brown...with fries instead of the salad. It's a sort of baked Chick-fil-a casserole in a sort of egg-cheese-milk kind of sauce topped with paprika and...dare I say it...bacon. If you were to try to balance this delicacy on the top of your head and just think about how good it is, your tongue would bore a hole through your brain trying to get to it. I believe it's actually happened a few times. No. Really. 

Then it was a rip through Macon and down I-16 to the coast to a little place that seems a lot like Heaven itself...Isle of Hope. 

Over 7,500 miles and 24 States. 

Thanks to those who have prayed, shared, and donated. 

God bless.