Place

4 09 2008

We lived in a gray victorian house with pink trim and a white picket fence. There was a big front porch with a swing where I spent lazy afternoons watching the clouds roll over the mountains to the plains. We grew tomatoes the size of softballs and shared a rose garden with our neighbors.

In the winter, it would snow: one foot, two feet, sometimes even three. The next day, the sun would shine warm in the deep blue sky. We would rush to the hill to sled before the snow melted and school started again. And then walk to Vic’s for hot chocolate or tea.

Place. I miss this place. The place where I grew up. Although I’ve lived here for most of my life, my heart is there.

It was a funny little town in Colorado. A utopia where you can ride your bike everywhere and public transportation is free. Where just about everyone runs marathons and eats organic/vegan/raw food. Where everyone is spiritual, but few love Jesus.

I miss the summer and the winter. Here there are no extremes. Most of the year, it’s between 50 and 60 degrees and cloudy with a chance of showers.

There the weather is extreme. In the summer, the heat build through the afternoon until thunderstorms rumble through the mountains with clashes of lightening and showers of rain. In the fall, the indian summer lingers through September and then by October, it begins to snow. In November and December the cold, hard wind strips the leaves off the trees. In the spring, the snow and ice melt and everything comes back to life. I miss this weather, this transformation: death and life and fury and joy.

Half my life ago, I moved away from this funny little town. But my heart is still there. Somedays I find myself looking at real estate and jobs, imagining what it would be like to move back. Other days I pray: God, I know this is crazy, but if there’s anyway you would send us there to help plant a church like Mars Hill…

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