By Lesley-Anne Evans
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Last spring my husband and I upgraded our driveway from gravel to concrete. For five years we had the only gravel driveway in our new neighbourhood. Now, with the new concrete drive, the front of our home looks neat and tidy, itís functional for the kids, and the neighbours rejoice in our conformity.
But thereís one small problem. Concrete is silent. Gravel crunches! It crunches underfoot as you walk, and beneath the tires when you arrive home. I miss the crunch.
One small crunch and my memory takes me back to rural Ontario. Our family, loaded into the Rideau 500, made the drive from the suburbs to the country each weekend. I remember the landmarks, the feeling of anticipation, and finally, pulling into my grandparents long driveway and hearing the welcoming crunch of gravel under the car tires. And then weíd see them standing in the doorway, welcoming us home.
The crunch causes me to reflect on my heritage of home. A heritage built on love and acceptance, discovery and joy, faith and family, and the importance of being with those you love. Itís core to who I am, and to the values I desire to pass on to my children.
Another day, another gravel road, and this time Iím taken to a place that I have only imagined. A crowd lines the roadway, and anticipation hangs heavy in the air. Palm leaves wave in welcome. Again, the sound of gravel crunching as he comes into view, riding on a donkey.
The procession makes itís way past me, and I consider what lays before Jesus on this gravel road. For it is the road to Jerusalem, and the road to his death.
Once again I reflect on my heritage of home, and faith. I consider how this road symbolizes my encounter with the unconditional love of God. I consider how this encounter has changed my life, both now and for eternity.
Then I think of my arrival day and my Jesus, standing with outstretched arms, welcoming me home.
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