Humbling Homegoing.

A big brick sign, weathered and worn, welcomed us to town. We drove slowly, turning the radio off to match the peacefulness of rural life that we were observing. There were just a few lonely cars at the only hotel in town, a few cars at the library, a few at the Lutheran Church. We turned right, and into a quiet downtown with sleepy storefronts. The bank on the corner advertised the arrival of a new ATM with a hand-written, neon green poster board sign hanging in the front window.

Thanks to the addition of a new gas station and cafe, the town's only grocery store was a flurry of activity. Down a few more blocks, we hit the high school, with dusty cars and trucks in the parking lot, and a handful of bikes left haphazardly unchained on the sidewalk.

This is my town. My hometown, where I spent the first 18 years of my life. When I walked across that stage on graduation day 8 years ago, I knew I was leaving the only home I'd ever known.

I couldn't have been happier. I was nervous, sure- moving to a new city and starting college was a huge step for me, a shy, small-town kid. But I was so ready to move on and move up in the world. When I walked across that stage on graduation day, I had a desire to keep on walking out the door of the school and never look back. I felt like leaving would finally give me a chance to be who I really was. To live my life the way I wanted to, without everyone watching me.

This week I found myself back in town for a few hours. Some of my coworkers were putting on outreach event at the high school. Familiar things met me at every turn - the band room, the gym, the auditorium. At one point, we walked through the drama department storage room. Senior year, my friends and I had painted our names on the back of an old prop desk. Sure enough, the desk was still there, along with my nickname and the names of the other '04 seniors in blue paint.

We set up for the even for an hour or two in the morning, during which I ran into a couple of the teachers I had during my high school years. We enjoyed a homemade lunch in the basement of one of the churches in town: hot dish, buttered buns and pickles, among other items. My high school librarian was there pouring milk and kool-aid for each of the guests. I got to chat with her and some of the church ladies after the meal for awhile. I sat next to Ed, an 85 year old man who has spent his whole life on the same farm site. His dad grew up on it, too. He runs sound at the church, and visits the county prison each week to tell others about Jesus.

It was pretty surreal being back. Humbling, too. I see things differently now when I look back on my years there. Our past is our past, and we can't change it. It's part of us, even when we try to ignore it, wish it away or pretend like it didn't happen. Even if we didn't have the best experiences, they still had a hand in shaping us into who we are.

It was a privilege to grow up in that small town. There are kids there growing up and having the same experiences I had. So many of them are growing up without spiritual input in any way. Those that do go to church still may not know or understand a relationship with God is available. Someone needs to tell them. I could. Or will I let my pride stand in the way?