pickup truck ride with God...

Saturdays were busy days in my growing up town of Valdosta, Georgia. It was the day working people came to town to do their business. Banks stayed open until one o’clock. Doctor’s offices were open and the grocery stores were packed with farm families. In the summer time, little boys in overalls stood on the corners and sold small brown bags of boiled green peanuts for a dime. They did a brisk business. The parking spaces downtown were filled with more pickup trucks than cars. The trucks often would have chairs in the back for the overflow crowd to sit in and it was not uncommon to see children riding in the bed of the truck, hair flying in the wind.
In those long ago days, business was transacted and bills paid face to face. The first tasks when you came to town always involved waiting outside for the children while the grown-ups paid bills. If it was very hot, you might be allowed to wait inside if the building was air-conditioned but you had to be on your best behavior. Any transgression would cause you to be sent immediately back outside.
After the business was tended to, the fun began. Wandering through Woolworth’s and McCrory’s Five and dime, checking out the Evening in Paris perfume and Tangee lipstick, buying whatever items your quarter allowance could pay for. If clothes shopping was on the schedule, you would walk to the Lazerus’ Store and look around. There were two Lazerus’ stores, each owned by a different brother. Belk’s was usually too expensive unless they were having a sale. A stop at Miller Hardware was always on the agenda before the final shopping at Harvey’s for groceries. We walked our whole downtown... two movie houses, three department stores, two five and dimes, banks, telephone and power companies, courthouse, post office, Southern Stationery, insurance offices, doctors and dentists offices, drugstores and jewelry stores, the King Grill and Don’s Hamburger Palace, Country Cobbler Shoe Store, the Daniel Ashley Hotel and many other small businesses... seeing folks we knew in our community of Clyattville and in the county. There was always time for the adults to pause and chatcatchup while children amused themselves while they waited. Saturdays were a welcome break from the routine for children and adults alike.
Now a trip to town is routine for me, something I do several times each week, to work or shop or go to church. It no longer feels so special. I do not pay my bills in person, cannot in most cases. My downtown Asheville is no longer populated with the main department stores. The stores are small, specialty places with stock mostly geared for the tourist trade. Good restaurants are everywhere but parking can be a problem. One movie house remains and art galleries are everywhere. Morrison’s Hardware with its ancient wooden seed bins and assortment of tools was transformed into a gift store and even that has closed now. I no longer see farm families downtown shopping. They drive to the Wal-Mart store or the mall on the edge of town. No more does the traveling evangelist preach on Saturday in Pritchard Park, standing in one place, limp Bible folded back, punching the air in rhythm to his fortissimo volume. I remember the small boy from Marion who visited the park regularly to exhort and exclaim for God’s sake. Wonder if he is still preaching? In some ways downtown is more interesting now but it is also in a strange way, sterile. Most of the poorer people you see are homeless, not living next door to you in the country. You don’t know their names and they are faceless members of your community.
When we saw the Terrell family in town, we always exchanged pleasantries. Sally and James were in my class at school. They were the poorest family I knew growing up, with a tar paper covered house and more children than their money could support. Mr. Terrell was widely acknowledged to be shiftless but Mrs. Terrell was seen as a woman of energy and spunk. Sally was bright and excelled in class. Even though her clothes were often dirty and torn, she had her mama’s nature and nothing kept her spirit from shining through. James on the other hand was like his daddy and teachers never found the key to unlock a love for learning. The community did not confine their help to Thanksgiving turkeys and Christmas boxes but helped out year round. The Terrells were a part of us and regardless of the father’s behavior, it was not right for the family to stand alone.
I know small town communities can be cruel, confining, prejudiced, narrow and unyielding. It was often true in Valdosta. Catholics (we had a large Greek population) and Jews ( also a large part of our town) were seen as different and sometimes less than. But we all knew not only each others names, but each others families and reputations. For good or for ill, you were known. And in that knowing came assurance and freedom. What a strange paradox... the community’s knowledge of ones self that might or might not be accurate, the knowledge of others that might or might not be accurate... this kind of knowing provided a safety net for everyone. If you needed to change your status in the community, you could but you would still be known as Tommy Calhoun’s daughter or Mr. Terrell’s daughter with the freely translated rendition of the family history. The bottom line... you were known... correctly or incorrectly, you were known.
I know, as I am known, and the One who is my Creator, knows me better then I know myself. What a blessed assurance and marvelous grace and terrifying possibility... to be known and possibly sent to the truck to wait or perhaps to be known and loved not in spite of but because of. All my failures and quirkiness and family history are a valued part of my creation, an asset not a liability. If I can truly accept this kind of knowing love, I can be transformed into the kind of person who loves others in the same way. Salvation and redemption for us all, one person at a time. That little preacher boy in Pritchard Park was right to proclaim God’s love for this world, for me, and I am still trying to believe in the Good Shepherd God who comes looking for me when I am on far away hillsides, lonely and lost. Some days I believe through and through and other days I have to hold on to keep this belief from slipping away. "I am the good shepherd; I know my own and my own know me."
Please God, when I forget who you are, remember me. Come find me and hold me close until my memory of you returns. And in my going out to town and coming home again, let me always find my way to you and to the others whom you love.