King's Corner: Headin' to the Line Shack
Cowboys in the Old West didn’t have therapists, bullet journals, or apps reminding them to drink water and ‘practice gratitude.’ What they had were long days, stubborn cattle, bad coffee, and enough silence to make a person hear thoughts they didn’t know they had.
And when life got too loud — when the bunkhouse bickering got old, the problems piled up like wet laundry after a rainstorm, or a man’s mind felt like a herd of wild horses — the old-timers had one tried-and-true prescription:
“Go to the line shack.”
A line shack was a lopsided cabin on the far edge of the ranch — too remote for company and too small for comfort. Cowboys lived there while riding fence, patching breaks, keeping predators honest, and wondering, at least once a day, why they ever thought ranching was a sensible career choice. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t cozy. But it was quiet — the kind of quiet where even the loudest worries eventually sit down and behave.
And when everything else in life is shouting, silence starts sounding a whole lot like God clearing His throat so He can talk.
My Dad’s Line Shack Winter
My dad never “processed his emotions.” He followed the classic cowboy approach: feel something, ignore it, and fix a fence until the feeling either toughened up or wandered off. But life has a way of insisting on introspection, and it did so with him in the form of one unforgettable winter.
At thirteen, he left home and drifted around the West: harvesting wheat, herding cattle, teaching tourists that horses are not, in fact, equipped with brake pedals. But the job that shaped him was a line-shack assignment so isolated even the coyotes left notes.
Six months. One cabin. Daily fence riding. Zero neighbors.
Supplies arrived every three weeks. Human conversation did not.
On his way to that lonely cabin, he passed a school tossing out old textbooks. Dad bought every single one, nearly collapsed his horse under the weight, and rode off looking like the world’s first mobile library.
Then winter arrived with enthusiasm. The snow didn’t fall so much as launch a full-scale assault. Some mornings he dug a tunnel between the door and daylight. Other mornings he hammered fence wire with fingers so cold he could’ve autographed cakes.
But between storms, he read. Kipling. Shakespeare. History. Anything the supply riders brought. And the King James Bible — partly because it was thick, partly because when you’re alone in a frozen wilderness, it makes sense to talk to Someone familiar with being surrounded by nothing but wide-open country.
He’d sit by the fire, tell God about the day, then sit still long enough to hear something back — not thunderbolts, but thoughts that steadied him, nudges wiser than anything he could’ve reasoned himself into.
By spring, he hadn’t just survived. He’d been shaped. Later, when the Army tested him, they said, “Congratulations, cowboy — you’ve accidentally completed high school and half of college.” Not bad for a ranch hand, a pile of discarded books, and a winter that refused to quit.
Why We Still Need the Line Shack
Today we don’t get snowed into cabins — the closest we come is when our Wi-Fi goes out. But life still gets too loud. Too fast. Too demanding. Our schedules overflow, our nerves fray, and our souls get tangled like barbed wire in a high wind.
That’s when an old cowboy would tip his hat and say, “Friend, you need the line shack.”
Not as an escape — but as a reset. A place to hear yourself think. A place to talk honestly with God. A place quiet enough to hear Him answer.
Finding Your Line Shack (No Horse Required)
Most of us don’t have a cabin on the back range. But we do have moments — and moments are the modern line shacks if we guard them well.
- A quiet cup of coffee before the house wakes up
- A walk with no earbuds, just birds and breathing
- Sitting in your truck for five extra minutes
- Closing your eyes and talking to God like He’s actually listening (He is)
- Reading something that settles your spirit instead of rattling it
- Sitting still long enough to let a little wisdom rise to the top
A line shack isn’t an escape from responsibility. It’s preparation for it.
It’s where you check your internal fences: Are they sagging? Broken? Letting trouble sneak through while you’re distracted?
It’s where you mend what’s loose. Where you unburden what’s heavy. Where God does some of His quietest, most effective work.
The Invitation
So let me ask you, cowboy simple:
When’s the last time you went to your line shack?
Not the real one — unless you own a tiny cabin with questionable structural integrity, in which case, good for you. I mean the quiet place where you talk to God, listen for His steady whisper, and let your soul breathe like it’s been needing to for far too long.
My dad always said he had “plenty of time to talk with God up there,” and he said it with a grin that hinted those conversations changed more than the weather.
So find your line shack. Step into the quiet. Tell God what’s on your heart. Listen until something true rises up.
Then ride back into your life with your head clear, your courage cinched tight, and your soul steady in the saddle.
Because when the dust blows in and the trail gets rough, one thing keeps a rider upright:
A soul sharpened by silence — and there’s no better grindstone than a line shack with God waiting inside.
Jeff Headley is pastor of the Dayton Valley Community Church, and a storyteller who blends humor, honesty, and hope. His weekly column reflects on resilience, grace, and the surprising ways faith shows up in ordinary life.
