Your Story Begins With a Place

My shoes squished as we walked across the cemetery, and yet it had not rained.  It was almost as if the ground was moist because of the millions of tears that had fallen there.  Over the hill, another family mourned, and I imagined their tears joining ours, soaking the grass, spilling into that deep pit that is grief.  As my friends led the way back to the car, I followed with my head bowed.  Passing the headstones, I quickly scanned the litanies.  A mother who lost two babies within eighteen months of one another, small children whose parents left tokens of their love with the passing of each season, wives, husbands, sisters and brothers slept together in this soggy berth.  The heavy hearts of their legacies caused the earth to sink where they lay.  I thought of my friends.  This place had become their harbor.  Now, it's the anchor that will shape their character more than anything else.  They will go to the cemetery when they're feeling sad, when there's something to celebrate, and when there's nothing else to do but to "be".

I bet they used to have a different place, but the circumstances of an unforeseen fate have altered the landscape of life as they know it.  Beginnings and new beginnings are always hard.  Yet, in the midst of the joy (and the pain), there is a place.  It's a place where God dwells, "and they were calling to one another:  'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory.'" (Isaiah 6:3)

As a child, I had a place like that, too.  The woods behind my house invited me to play every single day.  There, I outlined treasure maps, buried my prized rock collection, climbed trees, built forts, and outwitted bullies.  In summer, the trees provided shade and privacy.  But fall was my favorite time of year.  Crunch, crunch.  That's the sound of a crisp, autumn day.  It's the sound of running, jumping, playing, and hiding.  I knew every tree, and I loved it there.  I peeled chunks of pine bark and wrote messages with its brown powder on our back patio.

Now, I'm all grown up, and my place is still those woods.  When I look out the window behind the home I now own, I see trees, but the warm memories they evoke are of the ones I tramped as a kid.  I watch my kids swing from the branches and climb as high as they can.  I remember doing that and thinking, "I'm king of the world!"  My heart smiles when I remember the conversations I had with myself as I walked among the trees.  There, God confirmed that I matter to him.

When I left for college, I traded the familiarity of my childhood backyard for concrete and buildings.  Coming home on an airplane, I loved the descent into Atlanta.  Even in winter, the pine trees stood proud and strong...and green.  Their limbs welcomed me with open arms.

I guess all stories begin with a place.  I wonder where my children's "place" will be?  Will it be our warm kitchen, gathered around the large farm table where we meet for meals and to discuss the minutiae of our days?  Will it be the rolling hills of the camp they attend?  Or the peaceful, sunny beach where we wile away the summers?

Life continues, and the plot unfolds over a landscape that changes with the seasons.  Youth gives way to adulthood, and soon old age chases it through a space-time continuum that's bumpy and winding.  It can be cold and unforgiving.  But there's always a place, a beautiful wonderful place that says, "Welcome home.  I'm glad you're here."