Flashback

"In the town where I was raised
the clock ticked and the cattle grazed
Time passed with amazing grace
back where I come from..."

In every neighborhood, there's at least one child who doesn't quite fit in. He doesn't get to play ball with the others, he is the object of ridicule. Sometimes it stays with him, sometimes it doesn't.

On Winnebago Drive in the early 60s, I was that boy.

Those who remember will tell you I brought it upon myself, as if anyone barely past the age of reason knows any better. I eventually outgrew it, for the most part. But the remnants stayed with me for years. To this day, unless I'm the focus of attention at a party, I'll fade into the woodwork, as I'm not much for the superficial "schmoozing" that normally accompanies those events.

"Matt" was one of the older neighborhood boys. Like half of them, he was a punk, to be honest. And not just because he made my life a living hell. Everyone seemed to be okay with it, too.

So when I learned one day that "Matt" was run down by a car while riding his bike along the road out of town, I wasn't too upset. In fact, I was elated; God had taken his revenge on my behalf. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of expressing this elation within earshot of a few of his comrades. I didn't exactly walk away from that encounter unscathed.

I remembered some months earlier, when one of the guys tried to cut me with a knife as I was escaping on my bike. What if he hadn't missed? I wonder who would have cared. Was I wrong? Certainly. I should have kept my mouth shut. I would have been the bigger man for it. But back then, there wasn't much in the way of a "bigger man" to emulate.

And all I ever wanted to be was "one of the guys."

I thought of this event lately, as my son learned the fate of his high-school friend, Taylor Behl. Her body was found in a wooded area outside of Richmond. I was reminded of my impatience with the judgement of God. We look for him in the flashing bolts and the thundering clouds, not in "the still small voice" where Elijah found him.

When I go back to Milford and visit my old neighborhood, the trees are overgrown, and the place is only now ringing with the sounds of children again, as new families move into the aging starter homes, which I still identify by the names of families that went before them. But I remember life there like it was yesterday, and wonder where it all went. In fact, it was just the other day, I remembered a kid from the next street over, one of my comrades from the old Boy Scout troop. I heard he went into the Army, and has been stationed here in DC these many years. As I walked into the Arlington post office the other week, I passed by the face of a man coming out, and I could have sworn...

"Back where I come from
Where I'll be when its said and done
I'm proud as anyone
That's where I come from..." (Mac McAnally)