That the past remains in its rightful place.

Strange. To be in the company of those I've only caught glimpses of. Little snippets of a past whose history is not my own--whose stories gracefully weave themselves into a history entirely of my own making. How and when did I become so audacious to assume? Though I, for one, am glad that I did. I've been weighing this thought much lately and it crossed my mind while I sit to write this entry on a lovely day at the tail end of March. 

And so it is this sort of afternoon. The sun has warmed the tired earth, as if a traveler come again to remind us that he, in fact, did not quite forget us. The air carries the sediments of the past season. It is this sort of transition. A time became and yet becoming. And on this sort of day, through this sort of transition, comes this sort of promise: a tentative response; an awareness of the delicate balance. 

Today is the day that I am introduced to the splendor that is Philadelphia in the spring (at least I'm acknowledging it as such). I graciously accept this introduction with a heart that is not heavy or light, neither lost nor found. Everything is lull and lazily moving forward on its own accord, as if the problems of the world cease to exist for this one afternoon. I'm riding northbound on a street I've yet to experience and for the first time in months, the ride was no longer about the destination, but the peace of being and reflection. I take my time, as if I had all the time in a world whose problems cease to exist, if just for this one afternoon (the day called for such a response, as you know). Something extraordinary happens on these bike rides from Center City. The tightly wound core unravels wonderfully. The grid breaks suddenly. And Philly slowly comes to life. 

Understand that I cherish these moments. 

Upon entering the church on the corner of Eighteenth and Diamond, I close my eyes and breathe in the air of a history that is not quite my own, yet somehow I own it. It's familiar, even if I can't quite describe it. The light, now stale, hovers expectantly. The dust, suspended in time, eagerly waits for another moment. The silence, swollen with anticipation, grips the floor tiles. The room is pregnant with expectation and I am humbled in its presence. The space is breathing. I am reminded that God's grace abounds and transcends all understanding of my own capacity. My only hope is that old wounds find healing here. That the past remains in its rightful place, try as it might to resurrect itself incessantly in the stories told by the paintings on the walls. 

The decision to come here has granted me a caretaker of a piece of our collective history. Not as a nation, but as a people. And all at once, I'm overwhelmed that this can exist on such a small scale within the city limits and yet so much more lies beyond this. We're merely a glimmer in this grand story. Yet, we can be big things to our small stretch of time. Make meaningful relationships, even if not with everyone. We can leave our mark, even if few see it. We can even take a moment to respond to creation and simply enjoy as though the world's problems cease to exist, if just for one afternoon.