Just an Old Shepherd Thinking out Loud

 Ramblings of a Country Preacher

Next year, I will be retiring as a pastor at Sugar Plain Friends Church. I have served as a pastor for over forty years. My health has slowed me down, and it is time to step back and let the younger generation take charge.

Now and then, a man ought to stop and take a look at the road behind him—not to dwell there, but to understand how the Lord has led him step by step. I’ve been doing a little of that lately, and I reckon if I had to put it into plain words, I’d say this: I never set out to be anything more than a simple preacher of the Gospel, but the Lord had a way of adding a few burdens to my shoulders along the way.

First and foremost, I’ve always been a shepherd at heart. Not the kind that stands in a pulpit on Sunday morning, but the kind that watches for wolves, listens for trouble in the flock, and tries to keep folks pointed toward the Good Shepherd. There’s something in me that won’t let things slide when truth is at stake. Maybe that’s why I’ve spent so much time warning, teaching, and sometimes stepping on a few toes. A shepherd who never warns isn’t much of a shepherd at all.

But somewhere along the journey, I found myself becoming a keeper of stories too. Not just any stories—but the kind that matter. The kind that reminds us who we are and where we came from. Church history, family lines, old meeting minutes, fading photographs—those things aren’t just relics, they’re testimonies. They tell of faithfulness, sacrifice, and the quiet work of God through ordinary people. I suppose that’s why I’ve felt such a strong pull to write things down and preserve them. If we don’t, the next generation will forget—and forgetting is dangerous.

Then there’s this other burden I’ve carried, whether I asked for it or not—the burden of a watchman. The Bible speaks of men who stood on the wall and sounded the alarm when danger approached. I don’t claim any title, but I understand the weight of that calling. I look out at this world—its confusion, its pride, its drift away from God—and something in my spirit says, “Speak. Warn. Don’t stay silent.”

Not everyone likes that kind of preaching. Folks would rather hear smooth things, comfortable things. But truth has never been comfortable when hearts are drifting. If a storm is coming, it does no good to whisper about it—you sound the trumpet.

Now, I’ve never been one for fancy words or polished speeches. I’ve always believed that if a thing is true, it ought to be said plain enough that a farmer, a factory worker, or a schoolteacher can understand it. The Gospel wasn’t given to scholars alone—it was given to common people. So I try to speak in a way that folks can take it home with them, chew on it a while, and live it out come Monday morning.

Over the years, I’ve learned this much: you can’t please everybody, and you shouldn’t try. If you stand for truth, you’ll stand alone sometimes. If you speak plainly, you’ll be misunderstood. And if you refuse to follow the crowd, you’ll be called stubborn. But I’d rather answer to God for being faithful than answer to men for being agreeable.

So what does all that make me?

Just a country preacher.

A shepherd trying to guard the flock.

A historian trying to remember the works of God.

A watchman trying to warn of what he sees coming.

And a man who still believes that truth matters—now more than ever.

And if the Lord gives me a few more days, I reckon I’ll keep right on doing the same thing:

Preaching the Word, telling the story, and sounding the alarm when it needs to be sounded.

Because in the end, that’s my reasonable service.