My parents still live in the house in which I grew up. We visit them once a month, usually on Sundays after church. My sister, her husband, and their three children visit on Sundays, too. That’s nine extra people, five of whom are under five years old. Before we had children, my parents would invite us to stay for supper. Our visits would linger into the evening. Now they call and say, “Why don’t you come visit us this Sunday from three o’clock to four forty-five?”
My wife keeps our television in the closet and frowns when I take it out. My parents indulge themselves with cable television. When we visit in the winter, I go upstairs by myself. I tell them I need a little quiet time with the Lord, but what I do is sit in the easy chair in my brother’s old bedroom and channel-surf. Thirty-six channels. One time I caught an Andy Griffith Show marathon and watched four straight episodes. It was a glorious Sabbath.
In the summer I drive around town. I like to go back to 29 Martin Drive, where we lived until I was eight years old. 29 Martin Drive had an eat-in kitchen, living room, one bathroom, and three bedrooms. I drive by today and marvel that seven people used to live in that house, though it didn’t seem crowded at the time.
...it didn’t seem crowded at the time.
The maple trees my dad planted in the side yard now tower over the house. When I lived there, they were pencil thin, and we used them for second and third bases. The other people who live there now have added a garage. Other than that, things look the same. Once when I passed, the owners were working in the yard. I stopped to visit and dropped hints that I’d like to see the inside of house, but they didn’t invite me in. I remember the exact place I was sitting when my mother taught me to tie my shoes. I’d like to go back in that house and sit in that very place again.
When the house was being built, my dad took some leftover concrete and fashioned a big heart, about a foot across. He took a trowel and etched Bud and Glo into the heart. Those are my parents’ names — Bud and Glo Gulley. When they moved, they took the heart with them. Today it sits on the ground at the base of their back steps. Someday my parents will die, and we children will divide their belongings. When it comes my time to pick something, I’m going to choose that concrete heart Dad made for Mom some forty years ago.
Philip Gulley is a Quaker pastor who ministers in Indianapolis. He is married and has two preschool sons. In addition to pastoring and writing, Gulley enjoys spending Sunday afternoons in his hometown.
Title: "Concrete Heart"
Author: Philip Gulley
Publication Date: February 15, 2001
Concrete Heart
