There’s something about the Ozarks that settles into your soul. It’s not just the land—the way the dogwoods bloom soft and white in the spring, or how the springs spill out from the ridges like a quiet gift, or the shimmer of morning light on the lakes and rivers. No, as beautiful as all that is, it’s the people who give this place its heartbeat. They’re a rare kind, shaped by the hills and hollows, carrying a faith and a kindness that feels as timeless as the cedars standing guard over the countryside around my house.
This morning, I saw it unfold in a way I won’t soon forget. I was in Branson, sitting in the waiting room of a clinic, there for a routine blood draw. I’d fasted since the night before, so I was coffee-less and a little withdrawn, content to let the world pass by quietly. The room was small, with a handful of chairs and the faint hum of a heater keeping the February chill at bay. Across from me sat an older man, his flannel shirt pressed neat, a faded ball cap resting easy on his head. He glanced my way when I walked in, offering a smile and a nod—a simple gesture, but one that carried the warmth of familiarity, even between strangers. I returned the nod, but I didn’t say much. Some days, especially without my morning brew, I’m more inclined to listen than to talk.
His name was called first, and he rose using a cane with a slow, deliberate step, disappearing behind the door to the exam room. I settled into my chair, staring at the muted tones of the carpet, when his voice drifted through the thin door. “Stage four cancer,” he told the nurse, calm as if he were discussing the weather. The words landed heavy on me. Right there, in the stillness of that waiting room, I closed my eyes and lifted a prayer for him. Lord, hold this man close. Give him peace. Give him strength. It was a fleeting moment, a whisper between me and God, but it felt like the right thing to do.
He wasn’t in there long. The door swung open, and he stepped back into the waiting room, his face kind. He caught my eye again and said, “I bet it’s your turn next.” I nodded, expecting that to be the end of our exchange. But he paused, his hand resting on the edge of a chair, and then he turned to me with a question that stopped me cold. “Do you mind if I bless you this morning?” There was a gentleness in his voice, a sincerity that cut through the ordinary of the moment.
I knew what he meant. I’ve felt this grace before in the Ozarks, a handful of times since Joy and I settled here a year ago. It’s a quiet boldness, a way the folks here have of sharing what matters most. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a penny—worn smooth by time, with a small cross punched through its center. He held it out to me, his fingers steady despite the story his body told. “Christ blesses people,” he said, his words plain but weighty, like a cornerstone laid in faith.
“Amen,” I replied, meeting his gaze. That single word was enough. He didn’t need to preach a sermon, and I didn’t need to hear one. There’s a knowing here among God’s people, an unspoken bond that runs deep. A Christian recognizes another Christian—it’s as natural as the mist rising off Table Rock Lake at dawn. He pressed the penny into my hand, gave me a nod, and walked out the door, leaving behind a stillness that felt alive with meaning.
As the nurse called my name, I sat there a moment longer, turning that penny over in my fingers. I thought about that man, about the road he’s walking with stage four cancer shadowing his steps. I thought about my own road—years spent in the clamor and noise of Kansas City and St. Louis, where Joy and I raised our family in the rush of city life. In all those decades, not once did a stranger pause to share the gospel with me. I didn’t find Christ until my early forties, when His mercy broke through and drew my family to the water of baptism.
But here, in the Ozarks, it’s different. The people carry a quiet conviction, a contentment that doesn’t need to shout. They live their faith like it’s woven into the fabric of their days, and the beauty of this land—the rolling hills, the clear streams, the wide-open sky—stands as a constant echo of the One who made it all.
That man this morning, he’s a testament to it. I doesn’t seem like he’s got much time left on this earth—not with a diagnosis like that—but there he was, still living out the call God put on his heart. Still reaching out to a stranger in a waiting room, still offering a blessing when most would be too weary to try. That’s the spirit of the Ozarks people. They’re not chasing after flash or fame; they’re rooted in something deeper.
I slipped that penny into my pocket as I stood to follow the nurse. It’s a small thing, but it feels like a treasure—a reminder of a man who, even in his frailty, chose to give rather than take. The Ozarks are full of people like him, people who know what matters, who live with an eye toward eternity. They’re not perfect, but they’re present—ready to share a smile, a nod, a blessing, no matter what the day brings.
God bless that man today. I don’t know his name, but I know his heart, and I know the One who holds him. And God bless these Ozarks, where the land is lovely, but the people are the truest gift of all.