Where Did the Old Path Go?

I miss the old, worn path in our backyard. It went from our back steps across our yard. At the fence gate it got so worn there was a slight ditch that would collect water and mud and eventually it needed a cement slab and some stepping stones near it. After the gate the path continued in a gentle curve across Dad’s back yard to his back garage door. It was created by almost three decades of foot traffic.

The path held memories of a young blond girl and younger red-headed boy running over to stay at Grandma’s or to borrow an egg or some sugar. It saw Uncle James coming over to toss a ball with the kids or to take Buster for a walk. Later four Filipino children ran fast as bullets on the hard-packed earth on errands or visits to their newly adopted grandparents’ house.

The path grew deeper when my dad retired and would walk over every day to chat with me and his grandchildren and to pet the dog or bring us a bag of peanuts or apples or the newspaper. Sometimes he would listen in on whatever lesson I was teaching in our homeschool. Sometimes we would take a break and just visit.

When we started hosting Thanksgiving at our house, Mom would wrap her good china in towels and carry it over that path in a laundry basket. In later years others carried it back and forth. My dad or husband would even use the snowblower to clear the way between our doors when the snow got too deep. The path became an artery connecting our two homes.

Birthday cards and gifts and cakes were carried in both directions on that lifeline. Pots of stew and hot dish and handpicked flowers gathered from the lilac bushes and crab apple trees were lovingly walked back and forth on the trail.

And the years went by, faster it seemed than the days. And the little children grew up. And they walked with adult strength in the shadow of their childhood steps to Grandma’s house to help clean and to go grocery shopping with Grandpa. And to help get Grandma up from a fall.

And I walked on it to visit my momma, who often didn’t know she was my momma anymore. And eventually I walked down the path that had carried so many memories to meet with caregivers and hospice nurses.

Often in those days I walked back home worn and emotional…crying out to God. Sometimes I felt too weak to deal with the bumpy path and drove the short distance instead. One night I drove over and called home. And my daughters walked the path to see their grandma for the last time on this earth.

I was blessed when my son and his wife and young daughter moved in with Dad. What joy it was to see tiny feet running down the old path and to hear the squeak and clang of the metal fence gate and to hear a sweet voice holler, “Hi, Mimi!” Those were days of warm hugs and brightly chalked steps and dripping dilly bars.

Daddy went Home to Jesus and Momma about a year and a half after she passed. Eventually we cleaned out the house and sold it. And this week I sat out on my deck and realized the old path is gone. There may be remnants close to the gate, I didn’t go and look behind the pine tree. But I don’t see any evidence of our history that wore away the grass in the yard itself. When did it fade away? When did it just become a yard again?

I saw the new neighbors living in Dad’s old house. I introduced myself and we chatted a bit. Such a nice family. Two little boys with a younger sister. I invited them to use the gate and come for a visit whenever or to pop over if they needed to borrow something. I told them I had grandchildren around their age and maybe they could play together when the kids are here.

It will probably never be a dirt path again. I miss that precious path. But maybe we can wear out the grass a little.

“Show me the right path. O Lord: point out the road for me to follow. Lead me by your truth and teach me, for you are the God who saves me. All day long I put my hope in you.” Psalm 25:4-5 (NLT)