Hello.
My name is Curtis,
And I want to welcome you to Walking Home,
A space to pause and reflect on life's deeper lessons,
Love,
Grace,
Forgiveness,
And the courage it takes to live those out.
Today's story comes from one of my favorite childhood shows,
The Andy Griffith Show.
It's a simple episode,
Just 26 minutes,
But it carries a lesson that has stayed with me for a lifetime.
It's a story about truth,
Imagination,
And something even more powerful than both,
Faith and one another.
So the episode is called Mr.
McBeevy.
It begins with young Opie,
Andy Taylor's son,
Lost in his imagination,
Playing with an invisible horse named Blackie and telling stories about a mysterious man who walks in the trees,
Jingles when he moves,
And wears a shiny silver hat.
At first it's harmless fun,
But soon Opie claims that Mr.
McBeevy has given him gifts,
A hatchet,
And later a quarter.
Andy grows concerned.
He wonders if his son is lying,
Perhaps even stealing,
And using this imaginary figure as an excuse.
Finally,
He confronts him.
I want you to be man enough to admit Mr.
McBeevy was just made up.
Opie,
Standing small but steady,
Refuses.
The thought of lying,
Or worse,
Of someone he loves and looks up to not believing him,
Hurts much more deeply than the threat of punishment.
Andy is left with a choice.
Discipline his son for something he thinks is a lie,
Or choose to believe in the boy he knows,
And in one of television's most poignant moments,
He decides to believe,
Not because the story makes sense,
But because his son matters more than the facts.
Later Andy meets the real Mr.
McBeevy,
A telephone lineman whose silver helmet,
Jangling tools,
And job high up in the trees explains everything.
Opie was telling the truth all along,
But the lesson wasn't about being right,
It was about choosing trust.
Oh,
I don't know,
Barn,
Andy says to his deputy.
I guess it's a time like this when you're asked to believe something that just don't seem possible.
That's the moment that decides whether you've got faith in somebody or not.
I have learned as a counselor that truth is rarely as solid as we think.
What one person believes with all their heart may not be fact for another.
Our beliefs shape our reality.
I once heard of a man who passed a lie detector test after denying a crime that he had clearly committed,
Not because the machine was wrong,
But because he believed his own words.
Truth is as much subjective as it is objective.
That's why Andy's lesson still matters.
Sometimes the question isn't whether the facts line up,
It's whether we're willing to believe in the person standing before us.
We all know the ache of being doubted.
To speak truth and not be believed can hurt more deeply than physical pain.
And when someone chooses to trust us,
Even when our story doesn't make sense,
That trust has the power to heal,
To transform,
And to deepen love in ways logic never could.
So here's my invitation to you this week.
Is there someone in your life who isn't asking for your agreement?
They're only asking for your trust?
Is there a child,
A partner,
Or a friend who needs you to believe in them,
Even if you don't believe fully in their story?
Real love doesn't always demand certainty.
It often just asks for faith.
As the writer of Hebrew once wrote,
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for,
The evidence of things not seen.
May we learn to love like that,
To trust beyond what's frightening,
To believe beyond what's logical,
And to see beyond what's visible.
Thank you for spending this time with me.
I'm Curtis.
I am the Wayward Son,
Still walking home,
One story at a time.
