As I grow older, and hopefully wiser, I’m more convinced that despite the limitations of my early life, the soil in which my roots originally grew was rich and fertile. The richness of love in our home was more powerful than material poverty. The warm concern, the gentle care, the self-sacrificing for their five children gave us a heritage dollars can’t buy. Though glaringly limited, the faith we shared in the little country church had an expansive simplicity to which I return often. On a visit to that church a while ago, I celebrated this faith again with my parents. I suppose it had been 10 or 15 years since I had been in that little church, and I recall how it was that in that church I took my initial stumbling steps in Christian living. It was the pastor of that church, brother Grissom…