I was born in this city. I grew up here and still call this place home. In fact, I live within about two blocks from both of my main childhood homes. When June was ushered in, I began taking evening walks through the various streets that surrounded me; the streets of my childhood.
The streets are filled with my past: houses; the lantana and hibiscus; the driveway of my elementary bus stop; my junior high; circuitous paths explored with friends; bike rides (and falls); echoing trains; seasons strung into years; girl into woman.
Much remains unchanged. I breathe in dusk air, close my eyes and yearn deep to be in a time that came even before. A time with milkmen, gardens and clotheslines. He was there. He has gone before all things. He has hemmed it all in - all in this spinning planet.
And just as many things have remained unchanged, there are just as many things that are constantly changing. There are new buildings among the old. The population has nearly doubled since my birth. There is a weak economy here and with it weak people, neglected elderly, homeless families, abused children. Brokenness.
That in which should be strengthened has been allowed to lie fallow, barren. The redemption of Christ, which doesn't promise to remove hardships, but to hem in, to go before and behind, is let lie fallow. And then I see it, a house I remember from my youth, allowed to lie fallow, neglected.
I peer long at the boards and overgrowth. A place of old in need of pruning, restoration. And the God that has gone before truth-whispers. And isn't this why you needed a Savior?
And there is hope, restoration, and pruning for the hemmed in.
As I walk the streets of my childhood, I see Him there, for He is with me always. And I exhale and feel His hand upon me.
