Walking The Roads Of My Memory

Recently while walking down the sidewalk that passes in front of my home I caught myself longingly remembering the dirt road that ran in front of my grandparents’ house. To this day, I still remember the cool feeling that old Georgia clay had on a little boys’ bare feet, even on those hot southern summer days. Unfortunately, one big disadvantage dirt roads have, is they are not very stable in rainy weather. Like our lives, when the storms would come, many areas of the road would wash away. Fortunately, the county would come by every so often with a big road grader and level out the surface again. Fondly, I also remember my grandfather frequently taking his old tractor, with a blade mounted behind, fixing places that had washed out as well.

Change in life is inevitable, and the old dirt road was eventually covered with a combination of tar and gravel. That change definitely made the road more stable and eliminated the dust that fell on everything, as cars would pass by. Unfortunately, the days of running down the road in bare feet were gone forever. Some year’s later asphalt replaced tar and gravel, and now the old dirt road is only one of many that only exist in the pages of my mind.

Another road from those pages would have to be the one that ran in front of the home where I lived from childhood up through my last year in high school. Like the old dirt road, it also was paved with a combination of tar and gravel when we first moved onto the street. If you have ever ridden a bicycle on one of those roads, they are not very safe when they are first graveled. As cars pass over it, eventually the gravel will press down into the tar, or shift to the side of the road. However, when the gravel is fresh, they are very loose, and a slight shift will cause even the best of bike riders to fall. The still faint scar in my forehead is a reminder of just such an incidence that I will never forget.

During the 1960’s our country was at war. The road that passed by my paternal grandparents’ house led to a military training facility. I still vividly recall the sounds, on many summer afternoons, as tanks and trucks loaded down with other military weaponry would pass by headed for war games in the woods nearby. One by one, they would pass for what seemed like hours to prepare for possible deployment in foreign lands. The sound of the big guns rumbling as they discharged their arsenal into the hills nearby will forever echo in my memory.

This was also the same road, which my aunt and I would sit and sell watermelons, on hot summer afternoons, to the neighbors, as they would pass by. On more than one occasion, we also would go to the highest hill above the road and throw fireworks down the embankment, as cars would pass by. Surely, a childhood prank that today would summon the authorities. However, in simpler times, most laughed and just considered it as good clean fun. Oh how I miss those times!

As I grew towards adulthood, everyone will agree with me that, the road that leads to the house of your first date seems to be the longest one you will ever travel. Then again, the road between the hospital and the house as you bring your first child home is a trip that becomes permanently stamped within the pages of one’s memory. Even today, I remember the combination of nervousness and excitement as I watched that little life sitting in the backseat of the car. Never had I driven so carefully, watching and anticipating the actions of every driver on the road.

There have been so many roads and paths in my life that I have taken, some of these were carefully thought out, while many others were reckless and treacherous. There is nothing like the anticipation of going on that vacation you have waited on all year, the closer you get to your destination the more anticipation you feel. On the other hand, there is no trip as lonely as following silently behind a funeral processional as it makes its way towards the cemetery.

Sadly, I still remember each and every detail of trips made down country roads, following the hearse, each time that one of my grandparents and other relatives were taken to their final resting place. Slowly and methodically, the undertaker would drive past houses and farmlands that I had traveled by many times, but on those trips, you suddenly gain a better appreciation for the beauty and the delicateness of God’s creation.

One day we all will take that final journey down roads we once traveled in our youth and adulthood. The anticipation of scenery ahead will be replaced by the hesitation and grief of family and friends knowing that around the next corner will be the final resting place for our earthly body. However, we all have the promise made as our Savior walked down another pathway, the Via Dolorosa, on his way to a criminals’ cross, that one-day death will be no more and we can all live with Him forever in our eternal home.

Many of the roads that fill the pages of my memory can never be traveled again. Some no longer exist and others I would be remiss to even want to go down. For you see, some are literal roads, while others are experiences that are better remaining only a memory. The roads of our memory define us, while the roads of our future are decisions yet to be made. Carefully and prayerfully consider each path that lies before you and always know that the Man who walked on water is the same Man who carried a cross that He would die on up to Calvary. He is the same man who rose again on the third day so that we all could one day walk with Him on streets of gold in a land not made with hands.