Closing my eyes, I can still picture those mountains in my mind.
The memories are beginning to blur and fade a bit now and those once-vivid colors are slowly giving way to a more tinty, Polaroid hue. They float there sometimes… just out of reach but somehow… still, the heart-shapes remain the same.
Sometimes even the pain doesn’t seem as black as it was. Although every now and then, something scrapes and pricks my heart just enough to sharpen the view again. My throat catches and pulse quickens just moments before my mind has a chance to kick in and remember; that was then–this is now, Jesus is here.
Oh, but it wasn’t all bad
growing up in those mountains.
Those were the days when our little band of neighborhood ragamuffins ran wild and free around those hills. Days when our weary mothers sent us outside to play never worrying where we’d roamed until sundown. When there was nothing worse than getting stuck inside doing chores all day. So we’d pack a loose lunch and set out ….