Playground Gates

Driving from the airport, I knew I’d soon be juggling emotional hand grenades. I was on my way to a writer’s conference, located in the town in which I grew up, at a seminary located on the very street on which I lived. I was ready, or “all prayed up,” as they say in 12 step recovery circles, but the challenges came earlier than expected.

My mother, who’s 90, was unexpectedly admitted to the hospital, which was on my way as I approached town, so I paid her an early morning visit as I came into town. Hospitals are challenging places for my heart, given my history, and the smell of the halls and the sounds of the monitors brought me back to the summer I spent in such a hospital watching my father die. With a smile that I fear revealed a frightened child within, I pushed the door and entered my mother’s room. Fortunately, she was released a few days later.

I ended the day having dinner with my older brother. Such one-on-one time is practically non-existent now that we have families of our own. There was no reminiscing, only talk of today’s pressures and tomorrow’s challenges.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I began the conference the next morning. With remarkable speakers and provocative subjects, I was temporarily removed from the world outside the seminary gates. Looming larger than was comfortable, however, was the house down the street. It was an incredible house in which to grow up, and I knew I would need to make the short walk to see it. We sold it after my father died, but it remains the place I see when I close my eyes and think of “home.”

During one of our breaks, I made the short walk to the edge of the property and looked across the front lawn. The driveway was smaller than I remembered, and the new owners had changed the color and some of the architecture features. The three windows of my bedroom were still there, and I wondered if the room was the same. Around the side, I could see the office my father built to compose music and write sermons and books. Out of view was the backyard, the most sacred ground I knew as a child. It was there, along with my dog, I explored every inch, climbed every tree, and played until called in for bed. I wanted to go up and ring the doorbell to see how things looked from the inside, but I didn’t. I could tell it wasn't the place I remembered. I also knew I was no longer the child who once lived there.

Later at the conference, still holding thoughts and feelings about all I’d experienced, a speaker told of a trip to England he and his wife took recently. They made a point of visiting Kensington Gardens, the hometown of J.M. Barrie, creator of Peter Pan, and went to the park where he reportedly sat most afternoons. As the couple sat on his bench, taking it all in, they heard sounds of children playing coming from the other side of a nearby wall. A passer-by explained the Peter Pan Garden was on the other side, and directed them to the entrance gate around a nearby corner. With elated spirits, the couple walked toward the entrance holding hands. Turning the corner, however, a guard informed them they were not permitted in, and pointed to the sign: “No Grown Ups Allowed.” Of course, they thought, and walked away, deflated.

Lying in bed later that evening, I thought of the places I can no longer enter. Despite my most fervent prayers, time refuses to slow or, better yet, reverse. Loved ones age, concerns overwhelm, and childhood homes close their gates. Such thoughts made we want to go to the window and search for the second star on the right, and awaken in Neverland in the morning, but, instead, I gave thanks to for the days I’ve been given, and the adventures I’ve had.