Dichotomy of Past and Present: Walking the Roads of Memory and Grace

Returning to Guyana felt like stepping into multiple-layered versions of myself. I traveled along familiar streets carrying two addresses with me: 236 Enmore, my childhood home, where life felt small yet full of wonder; and 336 Deer Park, where I was a parent and spent thirty-five years raising a family, learning responsibility, endurance, and a love shaped by time and sacrifice. The numbers changed, and so did I. Innocence gave way to reflection.

Simplicity deepened into understanding. The land itself seemed to mirror my own transformation, holding together what was, what is, and what I carry forward after loss.

Visiting Enmore after thirty-five years revived memories long buried in my heart, and they flooded over me all at once. Some were joyful, others painful, and a few I hadn’t realized remained unresolved. Happiness and sorrow came together, accompanied by a quiet longing for what once was and what still lingers. Standing on those familiar streets, I saw that time had passed, but the mark of that place had never truly left me. It had just been waiting for my return.

Kaieteur Falls, the eighth natural wonder of the world, had been on my bucket list for years—a dream I held more in imagination than in expectation. I had envisioned it countless times, yet standing there felt almost surreal. I could hardly believe I was actually there, experiencing it not only with my eyes but with my whole heart. The roar of the water, the mist rising like breath, and the sheer scale of it all felt sacred. Surrounded by stunning plants and animals, alive with color and quiet movement, I was reminded of the beauty of a country that was once my home and still lives within me. My heart overflowed with gratitude for my faith and for a holy God who created nature not just for beauty but as a healing refuge for the soul. Kaieteur didn’t just impress me. It restored me.

I was also fortunate to visit Orinduik Falls, a quieter, lesser-known yet stunning waterfall. Unlike Kaieteur’s powerful, singular plunge, Orinduik spreads wide and gently, flowing over smooth jasper rocks in soft steps. The water encourages instead of overwhelms, inviting stillness, touch, and reflection. There is an intimacy to Orinduik, a tenderness that contrasts with Kaieteur’s force. It whispers rather than roars, reminding me that beauty doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Some of the most profound wonders greet us gently, offering restoration and a quiet sense of belonging.

My thoughts drifted to Bartica, Guyana (along the Essequibo river), especially to Goshen, where I attended church camp at age twelve. Those memories remain close to my heart. I arrived there with little, quietly envious of other campers my age who seemed well-dressed and well-provided for. I did not have enough clothes to last the week, so I hand-washed and dried them in the sun. Yet even then, gratitude overshadowed my want. Someone had paid for my trip, giving me the chance to experience nature, fellowship, and the peace found in a place filled with God's beauty. Although I couldn't revisit the camp this time, returning to Bartica brought back those sacred memories, and my heart overflowed with thanksgiving.

Now back in the United States, everything feels different. As I reflect on the time I spent in my birth country, I realize how profoundly I have changed—not only in circumstances but internally. Inside me lives a new person. I feel lost at times, yet I sense that this is the person God is shaping me to become. When I lost Kevin, my sweet son, transformation became unavoidable. Like the shifting landscape of Guyana, change is a natural part of life, but transforming after loss was never a path I would have chosen.

Some days, the emptiness feels overwhelming. I trust God, yet I remain human. I grieve. I long for what might have been. I know that death does not have the final say and that Jesus conquered the grave, but faith does not erase the ache. It allows me to bring my brokenness honestly before God. Scripture reminds me:

“See, I am doing a new thing; now it springs up, do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:19). 

I cling to that promise, even when I cannot yet see the new thing clearly.

Removing myself from the familiar and immersing myself in another culture allowed me to see life through a different lens. I witnessed poverty, desolation, and children living in orphanages, and my heart broke open with gratitude and sorrow. I thought of my mother and my grandmother, who struggled together to raise their children. Tears flowed as memories surfaced. My grandmother had loss both of her sons (my dad and uncle) and lived surrounded by her grandchildren. I often saw her weeping, never understanding her pain until now. How I wish I could tell her that I finally understand.

She often said that God gave her two sons and took them away, and that she wished He had taken her instead. Today, I carry deep love and reverence for her strength. She stitched our family together with humility, kindness, and generosity. She even paid for my high school education when my mother could not. I credit her for much of my endurance. She is a vital thread in the quilt of my life.

I still carry regrets. I left for America, once a land of promise and opportunity, seeking education and the dream of a better life. I built a future, yet some debts of love can never be repaid. What remains is gratitude, memory, and a faith that continues to hold me, even when my heart feels heavy.

Guyana reminded me that transformation is both painful and holy. God meets me in the land of my past and the uncertainty of my becoming. From Enmore to Bartica, from dream-fulfilled roaring waterfalls to quiet memories, every place returned a piece of my story with grace. Though loss has changed me forever, it has not stripped me of hope. I trust that the same God who shaped the rivers, the falls, and the land is still shaping me, gently and faithfully, one step at a time.

Loss changes us, yet God continues to shape beauty from our brokenness. Take a moment today to notice the small wonders around you and let them remind you of hope.