Fifty years ago today I was born in Fort Smith, Arkansas. I remember it like it was yesterday.
Well, not quite.
I do remember South 9th Street and the first house I called home. The front yard mimosa trees were just the right size for a boy to climb and the backyard seemed to run forever allowing a boy’s imagination to run wild chasing bad guys or riding the range.
And I remember 1101 Cavanaugh Road and the first church I called home. If I close my eyes I can still hear “Softly and Tenderly” and feel the warmth of the sun pouring through the stained glass.
But the memories do not linger long on addresses before turning to faces. For my life was shaped not by places, but by people. The house on South 9th would not have been a home without my mom and dad and eight years later my brother. And the church didn’t “stand” at 1101 Cavanaugh Road, it met there: Seamans and Presleys and Watkins and Pickles and Shofners and Hearns and so many more, including much of my mother’s family.
I was born in a place. But I am from a people. A people themselves sinners saved by grace, yet gloriously and graciously used by God to teach me, shape me and send me on my way with Jesus. For them I am today at 50 and every day profoundly grateful.
brentsummerhill 