While the rest of the family spends their week in Hickory, North Carolina for the triennial Taylor Family Reunion, I’ve chosen to stay home to spend some quality time with my sister. She no longer has good days, just bad days and worse days. Occasionally she has some good segments of days, for which we’re grateful. 

Yesterday she was having a good segment, so we slid ourselves into the car and drove to Reading, PA, our old stomping grounds growing up. (It’s always fun to hear people pronounce it “Reed-ing,” especially when we play Monopoly out of town. Actually, it’s pronounced, “Redd-ing,” though none us really knows why.)

Our little daytrip was filled with laughter, tears, memories, and a good bit of nostalgia. We talked about what our lives were. We talked about what our lives have become. We talked about what our lives might have been had we never been adopted. We talked about what our lives will be in eternity. 

We talked about things that matter, with a good bit of silliness thrown in from time to time to make it fun. Indeed, there’s a time for everything under the sun.

Sunrise. Sunset.

Yesterday after sunrise, we got to see:

Our old row home at 553 S. 15½ Street in Reading, a place of love and chaos, in equal measure.

Our nana and aunt’s home, which was four houses down the street from ours, a place of love and refuge, in abundance.

The steep back alley where we used to race our model cars, our snow sleds, our Tonka trucks, and our bikes whenever we wanted to play “Evel Knievel.”

The walkway between houses where little Ricky once peed on Lily’s windows. On purpose. Lily was not happy, and she scrubbed those windows with a scowl and ferocity hitherto unseen in our neighborhood.

The old 16th and Fairview Mennonite Church, where we used to go to vacation Bible school, now a Spanish-speaking Seventh Day Adventist church. I remember the cookies, the punch, and my first Bible verse, “I will trust and not be afraid” (Isaiah 12:2). I especially remember the love of those old Mennonite teachers. Back then, they could hug you.

The Old Tack’s Sandwich Shop at 16th & Cotton Streets, which is now a different kind of sandwich shop. “That just right steak sauce” is a thing of the past, except in our memories.

The old jewelry store where we would buy our mom a cheap little Christmas pin each year from our allowance, just in time for the Christmas Eve service. She cried every time, even though the thing was probably hideous. Come to think of it, maybe she cried because it was hideous.

Our old elementary school at 16th & Haak Streets, where we played street hockey and broke windows with errant shots on goal.

The Neversink Playground on Fairview Street, where several bones were broken and deep cuts needing to be stitched took place.

The old East Reading Swimming Pool on S. 14½ Street, where I learned to swim.

The old Hillside Swimming Pool on N. 14th Street, where I worked as a lifeguard.

All the schools on N. 13th Street, including Reading High School, and the Geigle Sports Complex/Natatorium, where I spent most of my high school days getting pruned.

We saw traditional landmarks, like the Pagoda, the Courthouse, the Fire Tower, and City Park. 

We had a blast pointing out all the houses where all our friends used to live, and the memories we made with them.

We recalled the various places along the way where we sustained injuries requiring trips to the emergency room. I especially enjoyed seeing the telephone pole I slammed into the day my brother and I switched bikes. I broke my thumb, and he broke his two front teeth. (Our brake settings were vastly different.) Dad was not happy, and he scowled at us much like Lily when she cleaned her newly anointed windows.

We then came home and had a steak dinner at sunset, just the two of us. We even had Pennsylvania Dutch potato filling to go with it, something we enjoyed every holiday meal growing up. We also had a dessert from “Sweet Street” in Reading called “Ever-Lovin’ Spoonful” chocolate cake. It was divine. 

Amidst our gospel conversations, we talked about a recurring dream I had when I was a little boy. It was always solemn but never scary. The setting of the dream was a lush, tree-lined meadow with thick green grass and sun rays bursting through the branches. Numerous caskets with sets of steps in front of each one followed the crescent path of the tree line. 

In this recurring dream, I helped each of my family members into their caskets, one at a time, closing the lid and then moving to the next family member. 

The last casket was mine. After I crawled into it, I would pull down the lid, only to wake up right before it was completely shut.

I never understood why I kept having that dream as a little boy, but its contents have played out over the years as I’ve buried quite a few family members—parents, godparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, a brother, and others.  

As a Christian pastor, I’ve gotten to sneer at death each time with a version of these marvelous words from the Church of England’s committal service:

In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life
through our Lord Jesus Christ,
who will transform our frail bodies
that they may be conformed to his glorious body,
who died, was buried, and rose again for us”.

I’d like to think that my waking up before the complete closing of my own casket lid was a hint of my pre-death rapture, but if not, I can still say with the Apostle Paul, “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”

Even now, in the face of my sister’s cancer, I can say to death, “Because of Easter, you’ve become God’s conscripted little escort, leading us into his glorious presence for all eternity.”

I can say to death, “Thanks for harvesting the earth for the great banquet to come. We’ll rejoice in your humiliation when we dine with God. The chocolate cake is divine, and you can’t have any.”

I can say to death, “Because of the risen Christ, all is well. And it will be forever.”

Sunrise. Sunset.

Sunrise.