A phone call from a high school classmate launched me on a memory tour that led to a web search for the address where I grew up. Among the results was a real estate listing with 2 dozen photos. One by one I clicked through them looking for anything that remained of my childhood home. With the exception of the ceiling light fixture and knotty pine broom closet in the utility room, only the floor plan remained the same.
Mom and dad sold that house the fall of 1977 and so in the span of 38 years, everything my parents had built was scrapped and replaced by those who came after them.
Except for the grape vine they planted in the back yard.
Not only had the vine survived, it flourished. My reminiscing turned to reflection of how our labors come to nothing in a generation or two and not even a memory of our toil remains, but for the good seed we plant, sustained by God to yield abundant fruit.
As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more. (Psalm 103:15-16)
There was one other thing about my childhood home that brought delight to my heart. In my old bedroom, now completely remodeled, sat a guitar on a stand where I had kept one 40 years before. And the room where mom played her upright piano, stood another like it. Now I know guitars and pianos are common, but perhaps something of our spirit lives on in our old home, an anointing. Like the last scene in the movie “War Room”, when the pastor and his wife buy “Miss Clara’s” house, he says of the ‘prayer closet’, “it’s baked in”.