We take one last trip of summer, pile twelve deep into a van. We drive through the streets of my childhood, streets I know by heart but can’t navigate on my own. I never drove them, still haven’t. We moved from Columbus, Indiana when I was only eleven and this is the first time my husband and children have seen where I grew up.

Thirty years ago, Dad built that fence on the right. I remember the day he drove the wood into the ground, made a three-sided line around our grass, the house closing up the square. That house holds every memory I have for the first decade of my life. Strangers live there now. Maybe in twenty-five years, the children in that small white house will drive by with their own van filled with people, hearts full, hands empty.

Maybe they will remember the alley out back where they ran barefoot, gravel hardening soft feet with every step, arms filled with Barbies, ears keen for the carnival sound of the ice cream truck, eyes filled with wonder.

Nothing was ever going to change.

Grandma would live forever.

Sisters would always share rooms.

Saturdays would always mean donuts.

Dad would always hold beers.

Home would always be Gladstone Avenue.

It hurts to go back and remember, mostly because we can’t re-create it. My heart begs my eyes to see again, but I can’t un-see what is now there. We have lived so many lives in this one lifetime since then.

Standing in that alley on Halloween night so many years ago, I couldn’t have imagined change would ever be good. But I was four, so what did I know? Life was hard then, not that I realized it at the time. I haven’t fully processed what it meant to me to see my childhood home through adult eyes, my own children  nearly as old as I was when we left, my husband holding my hand.

We look at the same buildings and streets and fields. But what was see is completely different. It’s difficult to accept that these people who are now my people can never really understand my past.

I look over on the seat next to me, my sister’s eyes as wide as mine, Mom telling a story behind us, Dad pulling out photos from the 80s. And I can’t believe it, but for a moment time is suspended. These are my people, too. Maybe Mom once felt like I do right now, and maybe her mom before us. We grow and move and change and make new people who do the same. At least we hope so.

We need the whole mix of them, this community of people put together by God. And it hurts to know them sometimes, to let them know me. But this is family, community, and in many ways, a picture of the church. Some of them remember as well as I do, others remember better and the youngest ones just want to get back to the hotel so they can play.

Some things are not for everyone to know, some gifts and lessons are only for those who lived through it. I’m learning to accept that and maybe even be thankful for it.

The van pulls out of the neighborhood, someone mentions Starbucks. The kids are having a bubblegum blowing contest in the back.

I smile, full.

Linda has been married to her high school sweetheart for 43 years and is in the midst of the lovely season of life that includes Grandchildren. She enjoys time spent with her family, quilting, knitting, writing, playing the piano and Bible Study. To learn more about Linda, visit her at Linda’s Patchwork Quilt. Her voice is calming and sweet. I know you’ll enjoy her.

Before we can even get the car doors open they are there, spilling out of the house with cries of “Papa!  Grandma!”  I bend over to grab a little one in my arms, reach up for a hug from a grandson who seems to have grown six inches in the past few weeks, and caress the cheeks of a beautiful granddaughter. Everyone is talking at once as we make our way into the house. There is so much they all want to share. I feel like the most loved, important person in the world.

Try as I will, I cannot make time slow down during these visits. How I long to make a few days stretch into weeks. We play and laugh and talk. I lean in close to hear their hearts – the things that are deeper than words. I carry a camera in my hand wherever we go, trying to capture the moments. I know from experience how quickly they slip through our fingers.

We walk slowly to the car when the visit is over  - one last quick catch, promises to come again soon, hugs and one more hug. The car doors close, and it is time to go. They stand in the driveway, waving until we are out of sight. I miss them before we reach the end of their sub-division. They are so precious to me.

I think about a Father who feels the same way about me. He loves me unconditionally and longs to spend time with me. He wants to hear my heart and share my joys and sorrows. He is never too busy. He has all the time in the world.

But what of me? Do I make Him feel loved and cherished? Do I look forward to hearing what He has to say or has prayer become more like a duty?  Do I rest in His presence without counting the minutes – my mind already on the next thing I must do?

Surely He is deserving of so much more. I want Him to feel the way I feel when my grandchildren run to greet me. I want to give Him one of those hugs my grandson gives – the kind that make me wonder if my ribs might actually crack! I want to love Him with my whole heart, and I want Him to know it.