Cross Street

We lived on Cross Street for most of my life.  The picture that accompanies this post was taken on the porch of our house on the day that I got baptized.  So many of my memories from my childhood are attached to the house on Cross Street.

I learned to drive on that street.  I fought the neighborhood tough girl on my brother’s behalf on that street.  I got ready for prom on that street.  I walked to meet my friend on that street.  I watched my brother relieve himself in the front yard on that street.

After my mom and stepfather got divorced, my mom and brother moved into an apartment that was not on that street.  New memories were created, in first an apartment, and later, in the house that my mother built.  But I’ve always held a soft spot in my heart for Cross Street.

My stepfather moved out of the house on Cross Street and sold it.  New people came in and renovated.  My brother told me that it looked completely different on the outside.  I drove by to see it, and I was amazed.

Some time later, we discovered that a relative of my sister-in-law bought the house on Cross Street.  My brother extended the invitation to me to check out what had been done to our childhood home.  We walked in….and nothing felt the same.  The kitchen was totally remodeled.  Walls stood in places that were previously open.  The home we knew was no more.

It made me think about my tendency to romanticize my past.  You know…the old me.  Back when life was more fun.  And though those years have sweet moments, they’re best left in the past.  I’ve grown and moved on to even sweeter moments.  The old place just doesn’t fit me anymore.  #wepreach