Going Home

Angela and I approached the door of my childhood home.

We weren't sure what to expect. We were just on a bike ride and saw the lovely mailbox labeled: 

The Clarks.

Curiosity had overtaken us, and we road down the driveway. 

I hadn't ridden my bike on that driveway for years, and this time it was paved. There was still a garden, but a camper resided near it. The campfire pit had changed, but the shed remained. 

We hesitated. Should we really knock? 

I told her all the things that I remembered in that front yard. The apple tree, the cherry tree, the clothes line...

The front porch. And even the knocker was the same. 

I lifted it, and proceeded to make our presence known.

Moments passed, and we heard the door handle jingle.

And we were greeted by a warm, gentle face. A man with a white beard and glasses.

I greeted him, and proceeded to explain how Angela and I had come to be upon his doorstep. 

"Each happiness of yesterday, is a memory for tomorrow."

                                                      -George W. Douglas

My family had moved away from Portage Lake when I was five years old. We had always referred to this dear blue-gray home as "the old house". Angela and I had been friends since the first day of kindergarten. She had lived on that same road for most of her life. We were around 11 or 12 at that time. Enjoying our summer, like always, chasing dragonflies and frogs and salamanders, jumping on the trampoline, and going on bike rides. 

Every time I had passed my old home, throughout those years, I would point it out as we drove past. I would remember the evening walks with my mom and sister. The times swimming and the pedal boat and canoe. Fishing with my grandparents and riding a bike with training wheels for the first time. Playing in the snow, ice skating, time with cousins, birthday parties, watching Saturday morning cartoons.

The time I swore the reed I had been 'fishing' with, got a bite. Our green kiddie pool in the front yard...tea parties with Pepsi and Apples and giggling at burps and playing Barbies and Polly Pockets. Receiving my favorite toy, my pony, Blue, who came with me to Grad School.

We had moved to a bigger lake, just a mile away, in 1996. Just before my 6th birthday. And the memories of our first home lived on in home videos and nostalgic musings of the past. 

Dear to me, always.

And that warm, gentle man welcomed us in, to see my old home again. He called his wife, and introduced us. Their names were Patti and Roger. Patti and Roger Clark. 

They gave us a full tour. He showed me all that was new. They were the 4th or 5th family to reside in our home since we had moved. Still, much was the same. 

I showed them where I had gotten my head stuck in the stairs when I was three. We laughed and laughed. 

I looked for where my sister had carved her name in the bathroom just before we had moved.

I told them of riding my trike to the record player downstairs, as they showed me where their great-nieces and nephews played in the porch. Just as my sister and I had.

Roger showed us where he made his own wine in the old furnace room. They had turned the old wall bed into a cupboard space. The front yard had a tiered garden added to it. And our old dock and boat lift remained. The yard was as green and beautiful as ever. The trees were taller, the forest thicker. 

Roger and Patti were so sweet and kind. They told us we were welcome to visit, any time. 

And as the years passed, I came by on my bike. Once a summer, I would come. We would visit and share stories and memories. They both had the neatest hobbies. Gardening and painting, playing Cribbage, fishing, canning, and spending time with their grandchildren and great-grandson. Patti showed me a picture she had painted of Roger, a duplicate of Minnesota's State Portrait: 

The perfect depiction of the dear, gentle man who greeted us that day. 

They were both filled with wisdom and understanding. They shared a love for Jesus Christ, and an appreciation for His Word. They were seasoned by the hardships of life, and marked by the sweetness of age and fortitude. 

My last visit with the Clarks was in the summer of 2010. Patti had grown ill with cancer, and on that day, had just had another chemo treatment. She was weak and weary. Their daughter was visiting, and they had just returned from picking strawberries from Keske's farm. I sat with them at the counter and helped hull their fresh haul. We talked and shared, like always. 

The way Roger cared for her was so sweet. His gentleness and tenderness moved me deeply. Their love for one another so precious to witness. They invited me to stay for dinner. It was wonderful, with strawberry shortcake for dessert. 

Soon after their daughter bade them good night, the three of us sat in their bedroom, the two of them upon their bed, holding hands, and I in the recliner. We talked and shared some more...reflecting upon how their bedroom was the same one my parents had shared when I was young. The pink carpet the same. The wallpaper, just as I remembered. 

As the sun began to set, I knew it was time for me to depart on my bike once more. I gave them each a hug, and said farewell. 

Roger sent me home with his newest batch of wine to share with my family. Chokecherry. He wrapped it in newspaper for me. And sent strawberries too. 

I don't know how to describe what these people have meant to me. They have been an anchor to a sacred part of my life. They have been friends to me. They have been treasured friends.

Roger departed to his heavenly Home one year ago. They were apart for a painful time. This past Sunday, Patti followed him into Eternity. They are with Jesus Christ now. I look forward with Joy for the day in which I may share unbroken fellowship with them again.

This song above will be sung this Saturday as Patti's life is celebrated. How sweet are the words to this lovely hymn. What longings they invoke in my heart.

I am deeply blessed to have known such dear, precious loved ones. 

I am deeply blessed to have such a Savior.


"Shadows gone. Break of Day. Real Life just begun."