The city where I live is dying. Year by year. Abandoned by car factories. Unable to recreate itself or pull out of the mess, it grasps with hope to the neighborhood where we live–one of two neighborhoods left still inhabited by owners rather than waiting for the demolition crew.
The yards are city-sized. Throwing a rock at the neighbor’s house will break a window. Our yard, hemmed in by peeling garages, chain linked fences and too little vegetation is not where I dreamed of raising you. It doesn’t sing of creation. But God planted us here.
And you dear daughter, found in this tiny place, the same freedom others find in running through fields and watching the big sky. To find it you went up into the neighbor’s maple tree. You easily swing up into that tree, grasping higher and higher branches until I choke down the warnings. You retreat there to read, to show off, to recover from life’s injuries. I cannot, with my motherly warnings, steal the comfort God’s creation provides by voicing the obvious risks.
Broken legs, broken cities. They threaten of scary possibilities. Still, I remain planted here. Looking up, to your tree and beyond, remembering that the God of comfort has asked me to grow here. So I let the echoes of fear and uncertainty fade and I hope the freedom you find in that tree is obvious in me.
Linking up today with my favorite online community of five minute writing enthusiasts. Lisa picks the prompt and we write, without overthinking for 5 minutes and then we celebrate our creations. Join us. Todays prompt: GRASP.
Photo credits: National Trust for Historic Preservation