Dear Child of Ours,
Tears streamed down my face, unashamed, as your Daddy and I walked home from church today. We had spent the morning worshiping from the depths of our spirits with a group of saints we now call family. We shared hugs and laughs, graciously received cards and gifts, and then we sat alone in the church tying up loose ends and turning in our keys. We walked out the door, making sure they locked behind us, and Kevin said, “Well now this seems real.” I started crying almost instantly.
I had teared up two other times that morning, but for the most part I had held it together well. The rush of emotion as we walked home from Albion Free Methodist Church one last time seemed to catch me off guard. But I let it happen. Your daddy reached for my hand and let the tears come, both of us taking note of the sights and sounds of our quaint little village.
I love this place, including or in spite of its flaws. I love the architecture and the great care taken to create an aesthetic town back in its formative nineteenth century. The details are stunning and many sites are adorned with sandstone crafted in the neighboring village of Medina.
The courthouse boasts mighty Greek Revival style pillars and its shimmering crown can be seen when you enter town. The Swan Library has this amazingly oversized blue door that makes you feel like child in comparison. Its railings have seen years of use, but their beauty is still evident.
In three years of living here, I haven’t yet grown accustomed to the breathtaking quality of the Presbyterian Church’s spire. It points to the heavens with awe and wonder.
I would love to know how many miles of walks and runs and bike rides I’ve logged along the Erie Canal Pathway. What an incredible feature to a town already only miles south of Lake Ontario. Such peace can be find by the banks of the water, particularly during sunrise when the earth is just waking, and at twilight when the crickets begin to chirp.
I have loved a good excuse to walk everywhere, any day, whatever the weather. These sidewalks have served me well, whether cement, sandstone, or brick. Some days I walked to Tim Horton’s two or three times, and perhaps I’d journey to the library or the bank or the post office or Family Dollar. I’ve walked to friends’ houses, to church, and to the school auditorium in the rain and in the 2 feet of snow and blistering winds of winter.
I love walking and this town was basically meant for people like me.
We pack up final boxes, running on adrenaline in spite of the California jet lag and emotional exhaustion. We walk one last time to our favorite places, doing some last minute errands and eating dinner. Two or three different vehicles filled with people we love honk noisily as they drive past us. And I assume the friends in their cars have similar thoughts to me,
I wish the Eccles could keep journeying up and down Main Street, as if they’ve lived here all their lives. I wish this didn’t have to end.