View from the Cul-de-sac

I've been melancholy the past few days. And rather than try to sum my feelings up as a neat little Facebook status, I figured I'd dust off the summer sand, exercise my tippety-tap typing fingers, and share a little bit here.

I can hear the applause. Thank you; it's good to be back.

To start, I love our house. I especially love the long (really long) driveway. It's the perfect spot for the kids to ride their bikes, draw with sidewalk chalk, and run races. Yesterday I laughed when our neighbor told me about all the times she's out in her back yard and she hears William riding his Big Wheel up and down and up and down.

We are located in a cul-de-sac, which is great for the kids' safety. It's also good for people-watching. Right after we moved in, I found myself glued to the front window trying to see who all our neighbors were. Yes, I'm that neighbor...

What struck me right away was the different life stages of each of the families. Some have teenagers, some have middle schoolers, some have grown children, and some don't have any kids at all.

But it was the across-the-street neighbors who were first to share a smile and a wave, even inviting us to their church. It was also the across-the-street neighbors who I watched yesterday.

I watched as they loaded the car. I watched as their daughter and son posed on the front porch one "last" time. And I watched the emotion-etched faces of the mother and father as they chauffeured their daughter off to college.

And there I was, out in the front yard, with my three little kids playing ball and ridin' Big Wheels. The juxtaposition of the life stages was poignant, and I couldn't help but wipe a tear from my cheek.

Another of our neighbors said that at least the college-bound girl wouldn't be moving far from home.

It's so much more than just distance.

It's the sobering realization that time marches on. Time passes. Too quickly.

William and Abby start school tomorrow. And I am NOT ready. I'm not ready for what a new school year represents. But here I am, being whooshed along in the crashing waves of time, edging ever closer to the rocks that lie ahead.

I'll end with a short story that was shared in our Sunday school class last week. It's worth reading.

The Green, Green Grass of Home

by Erma Bombeck
 

When Mike was 2, he wanted a sandbox, and his father said: “There goes the yard. We’ll have kids over here day and night, and they’ll throw sand into the flower beds, and cats will make a mess in it, and it’ll kill the grass for sure.”
 

And Mike’s mother said, “It’ll come back.” 
 

When Mike was 5, he wanted a jungle gym set with swings that would take his breath away and bars to take him to the summit, and his father said: “Good grief, I’ve seen those things in back yards, and do you know what they look like? Mud holes in a pasture. Kids digging their gym shoes in the ground. It’ll kill the grass.”
 

And Mike’s mother said, “It’ll come back.” 
 

Between breaths, when Daddy was blowing up the plastic swimming pool, he warned: “You know what they’re going to do to this place? They’re going to condemn it and use it for a missile site. I hope you know what you’re doing. They’ll track water everywhere and have a million water fights, and you won’t be able to take out the garbage without stepping in mud up to your neck. When we take this down, we’ll have the only brown lawn on the block.” 
 

“It’ll come back,” Mike’s mother said. 
 

When Mike was 12, he volunteered his yard for a camp out. As they hoisted the tents and drove in the spikes, his father stood at the window and observed, “Why don’t I just put the grass seed out in cereal bowls for the birds and save myself the trouble of spreading it around? You know for a fact that those tents and all those big feet are going to trample down every single blade of grass, don’t you. Don’t bother to answer. I know what you’re going to say. 
 

“‘It’ll come back.’” 
 

The basketball hoop on the side of the garage attracted more crowds than the Olympics. And a small patch of lawn that started out with a barren spot the size of a garbage can lid soon drew to encompass the entire side yard. 
 

Just when it looked as if the new seed might take root, the winter came and the sled runners beat it into ridges. Mike’s father shook his head and said, “I never asked for much in this life – only a patch of grass.” 
 

And his wife smiled and said, “It’ll come back.”
 

The lawn this fall was beautiful. It was green and alive and rolled out like a sponge carpet along the drive where gym shoes had trod … along the garage where bicycles used to fall … and around the flower beds where little boys used to dig with iced-tea spoons.
 

But Mike’s father never saw it. He anxiously looked beyond the yard and asked with a catch in his voice, “He will come back, won’t he?”