On my way back and forth between one town and another, I pass by an old farm house. Often there is a red pickup parked in the lane. The house is old, decrepit, weathered, paint peeling – you get the picture – like something you would see in old photos of the dust bowl depression.
And I wonder – who lives there? Do you ever do that? Wonder about houses you past - maybe on a country road at night – yellow light streaming from old windows - or maybe not so old – but I wonder. Who lives there – what is their story – what are they doing – are they arguing? Making love with the lights one? Who knows ...
But this house, for some reason, captures my imagination – and I think maybe an old person – or two, but probably one – the son comes to visit once in a while – out of duty perhaps.
The pickup is not there every day.
And then I notice the yard – trash everywhere – like a tornado hit – and no red pickup. Stuff strewn everywhere – I can’t tell what it all is – but it is obviously stuff dredged from inside the house – and now the windows are boarded up.
Someone died. I’m sure if it. A parent – Mother? Father? Maybe an Aunt or Uncle. That could be me someday – all alone and losing it – out of touch with reality – hoarding – living in my memories - I hope not – but could be.
But anyway - I wonder.
And then I see the bull dozer in the yard.
It sits there for a few days.
And then the demolition begins. I had noticed the boarded up windows a bit ago.
It didn’t take very long – a couple of days – and leveled – gone – as if it never existed – all the trash – the house – gone. Even the trees that were alongside the house – gone.
A piece of someone’s history – gone. As if it never existed.
But of course – it did, for someone, exist, that is. The person in the red pickup - who was that person? How do they feel about erasing a piece of their history – and that of their (assumed) loved one?
Will that be me?
It happens all too frequently – left over people. Bull dozed out of memory. Whether it is a boarded up old house or a stagnant room in a nursing home - and I’ve seen more than my share of these.
Do unto the least of these and you do it to me.
Is this what we do to Jesus? Because we do it to our left over loved ones.
Left overs – like the overripe bowl of mashed potatoes in the back of the frig. The science experiment in the covered container.
I have to admit – that is my greatest fear – being left over, forgotten, bulldozed out of memory. But even more than that - what will happen to Hunter if this all happens to me before he is gone?
Ouch, that hurts.
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