One of my most vivid memories from childhood was the day I got run over on my bicycle near my house. My parents had called out for us to come home, and I knew, on that particular day, that meant that we would be going to Leal’s for dinner and I could eat chips and salsa until I was ready to puke. Hector, the owner of the restaurant, had jokingly set a pitcher of salsa on our table a few months back because of my love of their salsa leading to the practice becoming an every visit thing.
Pedaling my bike as quickly as I could, I didn’t stop at the intersection as I began to turn the corner to make the last few feet home. The next thing I remember was lying on my back a few dozen feet in the wrong direction and hearing my mom scream like she’d just witnessed my death.
One of our neighbors, a newlywed still trying to understand the new life he’d committed himself to, had gotten into an argument with his wife just prior to this moment. In a heat of frustration and anger, he jumped in his truck and peeled out to get out of the house and cool off. He’d always been pretty careful about his driving, knowing there were several of us in the neighborhood who rode bikes like we owned the town and rarely paid attention the traffic in our small town. On this day though, he was angry, hurt, and just trying to get somewhere else.
We met at the intersection both blinded by emotions in an event that could have been far worse than it ever was. My bike was destroyed, after throwing me off the truck had caught the bike and folded it up underneath the wheels. His tires took the brunt of the damage, with two of them getting shredded by the bike’s medal as welds broke and punctured the rubber.
I was sore for several days, ripped the jeans I was wearing, and my elbow was bleeding. I was on my feet before anyone could get to me, honestly thinking I was about to get my butt beaten for being stupid and walked back to the house without a limp.
After cleaning up and changing clothes, I walked back outside to our neighbor apologizing to me for being “such a dumbass”. I admitted that I should’ve stopped to look, but salsa was calling, and I was in a hurry. He laughed, later I learned for the first time in several days.
My parents did scold me for not stopping like I should’ve but, for probably the only time in my childhood, I didn’t get a whipping for doing something stupid. We went on to town, I ate my longed-for chips and salsa and we ran our errands as planned.
And no, you didn’t miss that we never even talked to someone who knows anything about medicine. Doctors and hospitals were last resorts, and I was walking and talking just fine.
We got home that night, several hours later since going to town meant a 30-mile drive just to get to town plus making sure we had what we needed to survive for at least two weeks. During that time, I knew better than to ask about getting a new bike. The one I had just lost had been a hand-me-down from my brother who had gotten it used, so getting a replacement wasn’t going to happen quickly, if at all. No in our house if you didn’t take care of your things then you went without.
As we turned that last corner onto our street that night though, our neighbor and his wife were sitting in her truck in front of our house. Pulling into the drive, they stepped out and he opened the tailgate. From the bed, he pulled out a brand-new bicycle which he set on the ground and walked up the driveway to me.
There was a heated exchange between him and my dad which ended when his wife laid down the law to both the men and my mom about the situation before I was allowed to take the bike as my own.
I took care of that bike and rode it until I outgrew it. Luckily, at around that time I was mowing lawns and had the money set aside to replace the tires, brakes and chain before giving it back to that same couple for their son several years later.
That memory sits with me on a regular basis as I watch my kids grow up in a world where we have to keep an closer eye on them than our families had to in the 80s and 90s. Back then, kids left as soon as their chores were done to play and didn’t come home unless they were bleeding, had been called, or the streetlights were coming on signaling that it was supper time. Today, I don’t like my kids to take the trash out unless I’m out there with them or I have the camera on to watch them take the eight steps from the door to the trashcan.
Back then we tracked each other by which yard our bikes were in where today everyone is tracked by GPS with alerts telling us if they move more than a few feet from any given location throughout the day.
Back then we learned lessons about life, about compassion, about responsibility through core memories and life-altering mistakes. Today, we life in a bubble that protects us from so much I’m not sure my kids know what a core memory even is.
Growing up, it was common for us to be in the streets, playing, exploring, and building friendships, not only with our peers, but with everyone in town. Often it was the kids who know when someone was hurting or sick, it was the kids who stepped up to carry in groceries for Mrs. Johnson, or push Mr. Hernandez away from his lawn-mower so he wouldn’t have a heat stroke. Granted several times it was because we knew Mrs. Johnson always had cookies and Mr. Hernandez had a quarter to share so we could go get a snow cone. Each little act back then, no matter how selfish they were in the beginning, taught us the value of kindness, of compassion, of a little bit of work.
And there was joy in the towns we grew up in, because throughout the streets there was laughter, silliness, and simply play. I remember so many times coming up on a crew my dad was working with. Watching them work, handing them tools, hearing them joke around and even at times getting our hands and more dirty alongside them because we were simply there. I can’t count the hours I spent exploring an abandoned rail line, digging up spikes, exploring the hobo dugouts and riding our bikes on the hills left behind from the railroad being leveled many years ago.
Not everything we did when we were roaming was proper. I kissed a couple of girls in those hobo-dugouts. I learned to smoke in a corn field behind my grandfather’s house, and countless other things along the way.
Through it all though, I became me. When the guys were playing ball, I found I was happier drawing and creating. When many of my friends were constantly given new toys, cars, and clothes, I found I was happiest when I put in the work to earn those things myself.
And as I’ve aged, I have found that I long to see the streets filled with kids playing again. I dream of building a sandlot behind the house in hopes of hearing laughter ringing through the evening air again.
And as we look at the Bible, I truly believe that God intended for our kids to be comfortable and safe playing in the streets of our cities. Not taking in to account the many times that Jesus directly taught and interacted with children through his ministry, we can turn back to Zechariah to see this desire more directly.
Thus says the LORD of hosts: Old men and old women shall again sit in the streets of Jerusalem, each with a staff in hand because of great age. And the streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in its streets.
Zechariah 8:4-5
God wants us to be a communal people. He longs for us to be a community who shares, plays, debates, and knows one another. I truly believe we, who lived through the mid-late 1900s have such fond memories of that time because we were blessed to live in such a time.
And I believe that living in an age where we simply can’t live like we were raised is a mark of the downfall of our society and nation. If we can’t find a way to make the streets safe for our children again, to bring life back to a state where seeing kids in the streets is normal and expected, we are going to see crime, racism, and darkness continue to rise in our nation and through the world.
It’s the quiet noise of hearing that distant laughter, the simple pleasure of watching kids learn through doing, the joy of getting randomly caught up in a child’s game in the middle of our stressful day that we are missing. It’s not having those things to bring harmony, peace, and joy in our lives that are slowly killing us with increased stress, discontentment, and depression.
God didn’t create the world to be silent; he created it so he could hear us living. He created this world so we could live with him, not in silence, but in joyous laughter and communion.
J.Rhett Lively 