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Going for the Green by Tom King
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Have you ever felt like the Earth was shifting underfoot and there was nothing you could do but cling to the nearest chunk of ground and hang on for dear life. This weekend the Earth has moved for me. In the larger world, decisions are being made that could turn our world upside down. In the smaller world, our family has decided to move from the house that has been our home for the past decade – the place where my son died.
This will be a welcome relief for Sheila from the constant reminders that torment her. He died here and there are times she feels like she cannot bear it. Moving will help in her recovery from the PTSD that has plagued her for almost 4 years. I am certain of that.
I actually love the place we’re going. I’ll have a dock, fishing boat, our own beach and a spectacular view of the night sky. Not only that, but the place is cheaper and better built than where we’re living now. It’s a good thing. I know that. So why don’t I feel better about it?
I know when I walk out of this place, a piece of my heart stays here. Our beagle, Suzy, my old sailing partner, is buried in the back yard. It seems silly to even think about that. Our last Christmas with Micah was here. I can still see him joking with his sister; playing music with his brother. I walk past his bedroom door and for an instant it feels like he might still be there. His pickup’s been sold for months, but I still half expect to see it in the driveway when I pull up. I grasp at little straws of fading memories of my boy that slip away from me in time’s relentless slipstream.
I should be happy we’re moving. It’s a good thing. So, thank you God for whatever you’re doing to me. Like Scrooge once said, “Since I know that it is for my good, I will go with You.”
For now that means clinging to the nearest solid chunk of ground and hanging on for dear life.
That awful power, the public opinion of a nation, is created in America by a horde of ignorant, self-complacent simpletons who failed at ditching and shoe-making and fetched up in journalism on their way to the poorhouse. -Mark Twain