Slow Down

Growing up in Georgia was glorious. The air was humid, the breeze was constant and the sun shimmered like a mirage. It was like being in a large green house. I was surrounded by plush beauties that could only smile like Georgia peaches do. Soft, melodious voices rounded by the unhurried Deep South coddled my ears and feather light touches graced my cheeks as friends and relatives greeted one another. We grew up healthy and happy; strong and vibrant, yet gentle. Love and food were bountiful. Grace was given to God often and with great respect. Religion was joyful and beautiful. Songs raised on gorgeous voices in church and in the kitchen, in the yard and in the car. I was loved. I was raised with the knowledge that I was loved, I was cherished. And God loved and cherished us above the reverent love our family members held for one another. I was shown grace and joy. It was easy to be one of God’s little Christian soldiers when the only hardship I had ever known was losing #1 my first boyfriend (Charlie a 67 year old usher at our church, which I loved dearly) or #2 my puppy Biscuit. I was taught love, respect, responsibility, hard work, honor, humility and in some instances pride. My family found teaching moments in everyday items; lessons of love, loss and humbleness. I was taught to share, to offer and to give. I was given an amazing childhood. I was given freedom and struggled to learn time management. The rod was not spared for my sister and I and I am sure we turned out better for it. I was shown how to survive in the woods, how to grow my own food and to respect hunting. I was always asked to meet my potential; sadly, I didn’t always rise to the occasion. I was allowed to be a child. We had a huge group of children in our neighborhood. The pack ran within the limits of the houses with the best toys, the rope swings, the pools and the parents who loved having kids in their homes. All of the parents had free reign to adjust a child’s attitude if that was needed, and thankfully, not many parents had to employ disciplining any child other than their own. We were good kids. We may have been rambunctious, we may have been loud. But the loudness was laughter and stories and singing, not yelling and fighting and hitting. We looked after our own. We were diverse in cultures as we were in religion, planting seeds to explore other theologies as we grew older.
I’m in the blue shirt. It was a good time, we played hard and we broke bones. We were late for dance class and we got spanked. We roller skated all over the neighborhood and won swim meets with our neighborhood team. We were safe. We could be out until the street lights came on or until you heard your mother calling you home. It was a simple time that was steeped in friends, family, extended family, God’s love and the gentle heat and humidity of Georgia. Sometimes… I just want to go home.