As I walk around the familiar corner, I feel lost.
The surreal reality surrounds me.
This property holds stories of life transitions and milestones. My husband’s grandparents moved into their eclectic white home nearly seventy years ago. A young family from the east coast placed new roots here. A new landscape emerged inside and outside.
It became a symbol of celebration: Neighbors, friends, visitors shared the table. Eggs were hidden, birthday cakes lit, cookies made. Growth marks on the walls stood the test of time.
And also a refuge during transition: death, divorce, waiting, illness, engagement.
The yard, speaks to the celebrations held outside. Picnics, parties, husking corn.
But now, as my eyes scan the view in front of me, only an echo to the past remains. The familiar home on the corner is no more. Instead, two new homes stand in its place. One of them bears the address permanently etched in my mind. How can it be?
It feels as if I’m caught in a dream: one in which the landscape is familiar but the details don’t fit expectations.
But I grab onto a piece of hope. For life is still at work here. New memories are being made. Despite the changes, the yard can still speak life into those in its embrace. The seeds that were planted there over the course of fifty years have produced fruit.
My peace is found in my God: the Alpha and the Omega who makes things new in between. (Isaiah 43:19).
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