The Middle of Nowhere

When we describe where Walnut Hill is to someone, I normally hear the phrase "in the middle of nowhere", during the conversation.  It is in the country.  There are far more trees than people.  There are farms rather than subdivisions.  There are critters rather than pets.  The roads wind and the land rolls.  There are stars rather than streetlights and stop lights.  There are frogs that croak and crickets that chirp rather than sirens that blare and engines that roar.

I think there is a preconceived notion that there is nothing to do in "the middle of nowhere".  There are no movie theaters or malls.  There are no fast food restaurants.  There aren't even sidewalks.  And there is very little (and I'm talking nano here folks) cell service.

So, the minute my children return from the "middle of nowhere", why would they ask when they get to go back?  The "middle of nowhere" is where shoes become an afterthought and boundaries don't exist.  You become king of the forest and a pilot in the clouds.  Your imagination rules your world. You explore and discover and build and play.  And when your dirty toes get tired, you can swing to the stars.  And when you've grown weary of playing in the stars, you can rest in the love of your Memaw and Papa.

Well, as it turns out, the "middle of nowhere" happens to be smack-dab in the "middle of somewhere".

Hair of Red and Eyes Without Color

In my new role at home, my focus has shifted from my classroom and students to growing my children to be people who are broken for others.  I want them to genuinely love others as they do themselves.  Even more than themselves.  I want them to see the beauty that exists in their neighbors.  I want them to invest in others.  I want them to pour into others all the love and compassion they can muster.

I have lived in Pensacola for the majority of my life.  I've seen how people live.  I've walked up to houses where I could see inside, not by a window or a door, but by looking through slats that make up the wall.  There are children in our city who live in one bedroom apartments with 13 of their relatives.  I know because I taught them.  Our city is made up of people who live differently than we do.  They are people with stories and lessons.  I think it is imperative for Margo and Jude to understand that their perspective is shaped by their own little lives.  I want them to have a broader view.  I want them to connect with others who look and live differently than we do, to better understand how much we really have in common.  It's hard to love a neighbor if we never get to know them.

This summer I began to pray for God to lead me with a sovereign Hand in revealing the streets and people of our city to my children.  


Most mornings, after dropping Margo off at school, I pass a man on my way back home.  His red hair caught my attention.  Maybe it's because some of the most loved people in my life are redheads.  I've watched him stand with his sign.  That is all most of us see of his life.  Standing on a corner with a sign.  His red hair catching the light, he stands and looks past the people and the cars.  Last week, while stopped at the red light, he didn't look past me.  He looked at me.  And there he stood with his red hair and his eyes without color.  I expected them to be blue, but they weren't.  They weren't a color recognizable to me.  Not brown or green or even gray.  They were just deep and full.

And so that was it.  I went home and put together a practical bag of goodies for him and went back, equipped with my camera, a notebook and a pen.

Walking towards him, I was nervous that he would think I was crazy.  

Closer and closer I got, and he just assumed that I'd just keep walking, but instead I just walked right up to him, "Hi".  Ha!  That was it!  That's all I said.  "Hi".  And at that small, insignificant word, his sign dropped to his side.

He surprised me with his intelligent conversation.  He was so with it and present and willing to just talk.  Throughout our entire conversation, he never held his sign to catch the countless cars passing.  His focus never left our conversation, with the small exception of the dog that hung his body out of the car to give us a loving pant, with accompanying head tilt and tail wag. Well, and with that we shared a great laugh.

Gary was born December 12, 1957.  Right out of high school he joined the Marine Corps and he served in the mid and late 70s, while stationed in California.  As he told me about being 2nd in his class in Supply School, his chin lifted and his posture straitened.  I could feel that he felt valued in that moment.  I was proud of his accomplishments.  I was also thankful for his service as I stood there listening to his story.  He was a son and a brother to three bothers and a sister.  The pride he felt in his father was obvious.  That pride was a role in his journey to Pensacola.  Before Gary's birth, his dad was stationed in Pensacola and he grew up hearing stories of our city.

So how does a veteran, whose father was once stationed in our city, end up standing on our streets without a home or a family?  He lost his job in Savannah, Georgia without a savings.  And before long, he was on the street.  As he told me about the life that he's living, his shoulders drooped back and his chin found a way back closer to his chest.

We continued to talk and I told him about the difficulty of raising children in a selfish society.  He wanted me to pass on to them to value school and to walk away from trouble. He felt those were great contributing factors that lead him to life as it is.

As our conversation and time together came to an end, I asked him if I could take his picture and share our conversation.  He agreed, and at first he held his sign back in front, like that was who he is.  I took that picture, but then I dropped my camera down a bit to look at him.  I asked him if he'd feel uncomfortable if I got in really close to capture him.  It is funny the way little things can change people.  He straightened up again and dropped his sign.  He ran his fingers through his hair and beard in an attempt to groom it somewhat. He felt valued and I valued him.  His worth is indeed great to me.

I thanked him for sharing a bit of himself with me and I gave him the little bag and I walked away.  I was probably about ten feet away when I looked back at him.  He was walking away from his corner with his bag.  As I drove away, I saw that he'd moved to a tree, where he went through his bag.

As I passed him, I could envision him as a boy with his red hair, surrounded by all his brothers and his sister and loved dearly by his parents, opening the gift.