My grandfather was a pastor and, as such, moved around a lot during his time of service. My grandma can look at a room, plot its dimensions in her brain, and make furniture fit like a pro. They understand packing, moving, saying goodbye, and being content in every circumstance.
But mostly they know how to make new friends.
When I look back on my growing up years, I am grateful for the stability of being raised in one city. And being surrounded by one community. I love that my teacher was also who I would run into at the Bakery. And my friend’s dad was my softball coach. And my parents’ co-workers were fellow church members.
Once while my sister and I were still at home, my grandmother made a comment to my dad he recently passed on to me: In all her moving and goodbyes and hellos, she had never seen such a supportive community as the one in which we grew up. Based on her experience that comes on pretty good authority.
They were happier about their face painting experience than they look
But as I went to my childhood church this past weekend, and walked down the courthouse square eyeing fresh produce, and spent time in my friend’s home, there was no reason to have to take my grandmother’s word for it. I was reminded anew the blessing of my hometown experience. And how I have never not known a community who will love and have your back and show support.
Sometimes as we grow and change, we look back at things with fresh eyes. If your growing up years weren’t all beautiful perfection, I understand that as well. And, no one’s was. If it was all blissful, we’d have no need to rely on Him.
But I love how time and distance and experience can hold up a new lens with which to see the past.
Through my current lens, I can see God’s hand on every step of my life. And I’m profoundly grateful.