Yoder: Finding treasure in alleys and faith
By Kathy Yoder
“Make me know Your ways, O LORD; Teach me Your paths” (Psalm 25:4).
As a little girl, the alley beside our home was my kingdom of adventure. Dusty gravel crunched under my sneakers, and every corner held a promise of discovery. I’d hunt for treasures. Glittering rocks, a stray bottle cap, or, once, an old metal lunch bucket, its handle rusted but full of mystery. That alley was alive with possibility, scented with summer grass and the faint tang of motor oil from a neighbor’s garage. It was where imagination ran wild, turning pebbles into jewels and shadows into stories, each step a new chapter in my childhood saga.
My neighbor Hank was the alley’s unofficial guardian. He’d teeter-totter down its length, his worn boots scuffing the ground. Gruff and weathered, he seemed ancient, though likely no older than I am now. He never got my name right, just called me “Girl” with a squint. Hank was long on advice and short on patience, but his rare laugh, deep and rumbling like distant thunder, erased any hint of grumpiness. Once, he caught me eyeing a broken birdhouse. “Girl, leave it be. It’s no good now, but it housed a family once,” he said, his voice softer than usual. I imagined tiny wings fluttering there, and it felt like a secret we shared.
One day, spotting that lunch bucket, he barked, “Don’t touch that, Girl. You don’t know where it’s been. It’s got germs!” His warning was so dire I left it untouched, though I dreamed of secret treasures inside. Maybe there were ancient coins or a forgotten note that shared a story. I’ll never know. Hank probably hauled it to his shed, where it joined bolts, nails, and wisdom for curious girls who roamed alleys.
Recently, I paused in a different alley to photograph an old fire escape clinging to a brick building. Its back doors, stacked like folded laundry, opened onto metal platforms and winding stairs, all faded to a pale vanilla. Faint traces of colors it once held like medals—red brick, green railings—peeked through, remnants of a time when the building was new, and hope was as fresh as an unopened can of paint. Dreams felt close then, just an arm’s reach away. But those stairs, meant to lead to safety, now looked frail, creaking under time’s weight. Someone like Hank, with his unsteady gait, wouldn’t trust them.
It made me wonder about my escape plan. What happens when my life’s final chapter closes? Are my steps shaky, like those rusted stairs, or grounded on something unshakable? What about yours?
This last spring marked what would have been my husband Dave’s birthday, sixteen years since he left this earth. Eleven years ago, on that same day, his brother, Don, joined him in Heaven. Don, a brilliant university professor, made his smartest move ever when he accepted the Lord on his deathbed, a moment of grace that still brings tears of joy.
Two years later, their mother, Joan, followed. I miss them deeply, yet smile imagining their reunion. Dave and Don, best friends, laughing over a golf game. Joan watching with her warm smile, her spiritual gift of encouragement evident as always, all in God’s presence. I remember them at our old kitchen table, Dave’s quick wit sparking Don’s chuckle, Joan’s gentle scolding when their teasing went too far. That love, that bond, lives on in eternity. It’s an escape plan I trust.
My escape isn’t on wobbly stairs that rust and break. It’s through the cross of Jesus. As Christians, we’re Easter people every moment of every day, living in the joy of the resurrection. Jesus is the only way to Heaven. He’s our solid foundation. He is the resurrection and the life. Even though we die, we will live (John 11:25).
Even Hank, with his alley wisdom, couldn’t argue with that.
Kathy Yoder is a devotional writer and Christian author. She is reachable at Kathyyoder4@gmail.com and Kathyyoder.com.
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