A wedding for to see, taking us round and down to a valley of green, a groom’s ma and pa inviting us to witness the taking of a bride down in a Cookeville Holler.
The mule teams in studded ties, a gallant driver with bright eyes in wedding finery and hopeful sighs, drives us through the valley wide, one cool fall night, down in the Cookeville Holler
Delivering us to an open church, pews are quilt-covered bales. As we anticipate the bride, we are told of ghosts and lore, a tale passed down of prisoners of war running for freedom never to be found because they were shot for treason, down in this very Cookeville Holler.
A chill ran my spine, listening for their cries in the dark night air as we walk to the barn. All is forgotten as light spills from the doors lighting up the night. We dance with the hope of new life after the commitment made down in their Cookeville Holler.
Years have passed since that wedding night and I awake to learn of devastation wrought, with houses torn asunder. In a whirlwind they fought and still souls were snatched heavenward, down in the Cookeville Holler.
My cry rings out, with a prayer I wonder what God might be doing with so many lives lost. My heart is for those left behind, to let them know they are not alone, please give or go to help them pick of the pieces that remain down in the Cookeville Holler.