Small Town ... Home Town
It was time for a home town visit. Soon the snow would fly and the winter weather would stop me in my tracks and as the route home hadn’t been traveled for some time, now was the time.
The hours of travel flew by as I drove the familiar route. Upon arrival, the home grown memories were everywhere and like a kid in a candy store, I made my way around town. Down the neatly organized isles of the local grocery, shops along main, the route taken to school for many a year, and the church on the hill all loomed large. The local library felt welcoming as did the baseball park and playgrounds scattered about. The stern gray metal bridge acting as a gateway to the pool each summer had been replaced with a more up-to-date structure, and it was evident that those who remained maintained the hometown well. I was proud.
Many a building had been resurrected in ways to better serve. A second hand store supported the church, a museum had replaced one of the hardware stores, an empty building now turned restaurant waited upon the locals, and all seemed to be in full bloom including the flower shop which had taken over the former drug store. Even the hospital, no longer used as such, now held the area food shelf, offering dignity to all who entered. The volunteers were a plenty and I was proud of my community from whence I’d come.
After visiting those whom I’d come to see, I made my way out of town. However, the steering wheel seemed to have power all its own as it took a turn to the right and headed in the direction of one final resting spot.
Up the familiar gravel road the car drove and as a passenger within, I knew exactly where it was going. Coming to a full stop, I opened the door and set my feet upon the ground. The evergreen swags invited as did the gray headstone looming beneath it.
It was mom’s grave. Her dark brown eyes came to mind as a vision of her walking down main greeting others with a smile pushed its way into my thoughts. Engaging others in conversation was her gift. Whether on her way to the Post Office, grocery store, hardware store, or school, she never passed another without an encouraging word, smile, or full conversation. For hours she had knelt in prayer within the brick church upon the hill and memories poured in about how she’d poured herself out.
As I looked up, surrounding mom were the names upon many a grave of those who had walked beside her. Row after row of names waved welcome as I stood beside mom’s grave and now, along with them, she was among the communion of saints.
Every town has them, you know, the saints who have gone before those still remaining. “For in Him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28).
I was and will always be forever grateful for small town community which is faithful because He is faithful. In an ever changing world, that will never change. Amen.
