As an (amature) historian, I drive down streets or highways wondering how many have gone there before me and who they were. I notice changes and realize that buildings that looked to last for a century were gone in a decade or two. Mountain towns that boasted thousands of residents, mostly miners, now are nothing but a few ruts and meadow for elk to wander through. Psalm 103 brings home the impermanence of life.

As a father has compassion on his children,
so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him;

for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.

As for man, his days are like grass,
he flourishes like a flower of the field;

the wind blows over it and it is gone,
and its place remembers it no more.

But from everlasting to everlasting
the LORD's love is with those who fear him,
and his righteousness with their children's children-

with those who keep his covenant
and remember to obey his precepts.

The LORD has established his throne in heaven,
and his kingdom rules over all.

The transient nature of our lives was keenly felt as I went by my old neighborhood today. I was amazed at how much had changed. I had been back before because I still have family nearby. Still, the community has changed so much. I pointed out the changes time and again to my wife, only to realize that she and I were the only ones in the car to really know what we were talking about. Every one of our kids had only vague notions and shadowy recollections, if anything. My dad and mom used to do the same thing when we would drive through downtown. One year, my folks decided to track down the old family cigar store that my father remembered visiting as a kid. In a strange twist, we found that the site of the store was marked with nothing more than a phone booth! On a slightly happier note, a year ago at Christmas, my father received a gift from my brother-in-law: a photograph of the store from the 1920s purchased after a chance discovery.

Back as a kid, I thought my parents were nuts. Why go around chasing down phantom stores and old places like that? Somewhere between driving by the hospital where I was born and the discovery that a third mall had been knocked down for "redevelopment," I had the realization that it wasn't so much about places and buildings as it was about people. The old movie theater was the place I would go to see movies with my dad. The park with the huge trees you remember as saplings was host to a summer picnic with dear friends long since moved out-of-state. Reminiscing and visiting these places is not so much about the details of what went where but about who we were with.

My eight year-old son, who couldn't have been much more than two years old at the time, recalled from the outside of his grandparents' former home that there was a picture of Jesus over the fireplace and that the kitchen was off to the right. This tells me more about my son than the fact that he has a good memory. It tells me that he remembers his grandparents and time spent with them, even if it was only having snacks and watching VeggieTales. It was about love. It was about time.

And someday, my grandson is going to think my son is nuts too. At least, he will if I can help it.

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