The Handyman’s Shop is gone. I just walked by it the other day, but now it is gone. And by gone I mean, no longer in existence. I don’t mean they moved or I forgot what street they were on. The building itself is gone. It has been razed. (Have you ever wondered why raze sounds the same as raise but it means the opposite?) I find this mildly disturbing. I mean I know stores open and close all the time, but buildings don’t come and go quite as often and yet it has become a trend in my neighbourhood lately. In other words, my concern has been raised by all this razing. I am down in the dumps because of all of the dumps that have been downed.
In fact, just in my neighbourhood, I can think of at least three places that have become open spaces. One of them is now on its way to becoming a condo, but another has remained a barren gap in the flow of a commercial block that reminds me of an eight-year-olds’ simile. Missing teeth are cute, in an eight-year-old that is, but missing buildings aren’t. They are just a reminder that something used to be there, until someone comes and fills them in.
Now, I don’t want you to worry about me. I am not going to fall apart because of what has been taken apart. I am sure I can handle all the dismantling. After all, life goes on. But, last year when we were back in PEI, I drove by the location that housed the place in which we lived and the church building in which I served and there was nothing to indicate that either one of them was ever there. The highway has been improved and so the house and the church building no longer exist. What once was an essential part of the community has now made way to an easier exodus out of the community. Apparently it only took a day to wipe out the one bit of PEI that was most familiar to me.
I couldn’t help but reflect on whether we ever really lived in PEI. I know we did. I know we spent six years there, but at the same time, now with all physical evidence gone, it seemed more of a dream than a reality. That led me to ponder what lasting effect our presence in PEI has had. Since there is no longer any physical evidence, is there any lasting spiritual evidence that we ever lived in PEI? It is a good question, albeit a bit unsettling.
Ultimately I am reminded that our investment in people is by far the most lasting of investments we can make. It is possible to have all physical record of your life removed, razed, and rubbed out, but what you have invested in friends and family and community will remain. One day your own abode will be lowered into a grave and all your investments in the gym will rot and become fast food for worms. But all your investments in people will live on—particularly the investments of the eternal variety.
One last point—ripping down is part of what is necessary to build up. When you have an established community, the only option you have to build something new is to tear something old down. With that in mind, and as we still see the New Year in our rear view mirrors, what, in your life, has to be razed to raise your spiritual infrastructure? What has to be ripped down so that you can be built up? Often less is definitely more.
I have a dear friend who is a gifted musical-type person. Not only is she a music teacher, but she also is an able musical director, in fact, presently she is a choir director with a community choir in the West end of Toronto.
Have you ever woken up in a state of panic? Maybe it was because you were particularly tired. Maybe you were sick. Maybe you were travelling and not in your own bed. It has happened to me a few times and nothing is more unsettling then being confused about where you are. I remember one time being in a cottage near Huntsville and waking up in the middle of the night to complete darkness. It was so dark I felt claustrophobic. It made me want to go home and get my trusty Snoopy nightlight! 
