On this Saturday past, I stood at the highest point in Maple Hill Cemetery, overlooking the Mississippi River as it flowed past Helena, Arkansas.
Gathered there with my oldest daughter and myself was a small group of people come to pay tribute to Patrick Ronayne Cleburne on the day before his birthday.
Though a son of Ireland, he was also a son of the South and so akin to the sons and daughters who had come to remember him.
The speaker related Cleburne's life story and his service to his adopted home. But he also spoke of those traditions and values which bind us together.
My mind wandered and I reflected on the reasons I had come home; to renew old acquaintances, to see the old places once more, but most of all, to strengthen and renew family ties strained (if that is the right word) by time and distance.
The next day we worshipped in the church where I grew up, sitting in the pew with a memorial plaque bearing my father's name.
God blessed this past weekend, as He often does, above and beyond what I had asked or expected.
I am grateful for the home where I have lived for the past thirty years and all those who are and have been part of my life there.
But I am so thankful also for the place from which I came, and the people who made and continue to make that place special in my heart.
As the song says, Old times there are not forgotten.
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