Days of Profound Gratitude – Thursday, 30 June 2011 – Part II
As my wife, children and I reached my hometown which I had not visited since my brother's funeral seventeen years ago, I braced myself for a torrent of tears and writhing emotions. Not surprisingly, I prayed silently and fervently. The formal component of my personality wanted to be the best tour guide of which I am capable. With the grace of the Holy Spirit whose encouragement and empowerment strengthens my inner person, I steadfastly forged forward to embrace the frank and raw emotions that would emerge in this pilgrimage to my very personal place of origins. Interestingly, I missed the turn onto the road on which I grew up. Quickly, I turned around acknowledging that the sign had been changed undoubtedly within the interim of my last trip to the old neighborhood. As we drove along the state highway leading to this turn, I noticed a plethora of new churches which Sumter was not lacking in my childhood. During an early evening visit with lifelong friends, I learned the closing of an Army base in a neighboring state led to a population explosion that in turn yielded the multiplication of churches and the addition of a middle and a high school on the outer boundaries of the county. Nonetheless, the floodgate of tears I expected was eclipsed by my amazement in response to what I observed. A park now adorns the main entrance to the neighborhood. How I wish my siblings, cousins and neighborhood kids could have enjoyed a park. Instead, a makeshift baseball field for an independent adult baseball league lay where the park is. But, the boarded-up building that housed a once segregated neighborhood school and subsequently a government office disbursing food stamps and other entitlements remains. Puzzling, this flagrant eye sore which regrettably devalues property in an already depressed housing market has not been removed. One imagines an infestation of roaches, mice and snakes within this long boarded-up facility which necessitates condemnation and total destruction. This building furthers the adage; "the more things change, the more they stay the same."
Adjacent to it is the house of deceased neighbors. Though well kept by them during their lives with a fruitful garden in the back, the Smiths' house is surrounded by grossly overgrown weeds of myriad types. I suspect Mr. and Mrs. Smith are rolling over in their graves when I think that their daughter and grandchildren essentially abandoned the property they worked so tirelessly to maintain and bequeath as a testament of their love and legacy. As our car with New York State tags proceeded down the road, I observed new houses and trailers in the neighborhood. Time did not permit me to stop and inquire about the "new" people. Who are they? What motivated them to move to this area? Pleasantly, however, I recognized the homes of my childhood neighbors. It is nice to know at least five families I remember still reside there.
One of the day's biggest surprises was my inability to locate exactly the house where I grew up. My younger brother told me a fire of a few years ago had destroyed it. I assumed a clear lot would be there. In my wild imagination, I envisioned a manicured lawn with a marker. I found a wild plot of land with untamed woods barely leaving the residual of a driveway. I only knew that I was parking near the right plot because I was near a red brick house that a paternal uncle had built directly adjacent to the house his father, my paternal grandfather who was for all and intents and purposes my father, had built. Faced with the harsh reality that my childhood home no longer stands, I offered my family as vivid a description of the house and yard as I could. I gave a sports announcer play-by-play narration of the garden that lay behind the house, the neighbor's property and garden on the right side, the soy bean fields across the street, the immeasurably bounteous pear and pecan tree "down the road a piece," and my uncle's yard on the left. Instead of tears and the sting of long buried emotional pain, I feel overwhelmed by a profound sense of thanksgiving to Almighty God.
One of the day's biggest surprises was my inability to locate exactly the house where I grew up. My younger brother told me a fire of a few years ago had destroyed it. I assumed a clear lot would be there. In my wild imagination, I envisioned a manicured lawn with a marker. I found a wild plot of land with untamed woods barely leaving the residual of a driveway. I only knew that I was parking near the right plot because I was near a red brick house that a paternal uncle had built directly adjacent to the house his father, my paternal grandfather who was for all and intents and purposes my father, had built. Faced with the harsh reality that my childhood home no longer stands, I offered my family as vivid a description of the house and yard as I could. I gave a sports announcer play-by-play narration of the garden that lay behind the house, the neighbor's property and garden on the right side, the soy bean fields across the street, the immeasurably bounteous pear and pecan tree "down the road a piece," and my uncle's yard on the left. Instead of tears and the sting of long buried emotional pain, I feel overwhelmed by a profound sense of thanksgiving to Almighty God.
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