Originally published in The Newnan Times-Herald, read here.
Growing up in the country, I could leave my house in any direction and, within minutes, be in an open field or deep in the woods, free to explore.
When my wife and I bought a home in Jackson, Tennessee, I wanted that same freedom for our children. We found it in a neighborhood that backed up to five undeveloped acres: waist-high grass, dense woods and an abandoned house that looked frozen in time.
To our kids, it was an endless adventure. They built forts, crossed a fallen tree like a bridge over a gully, and imagined the land as their own Hundred Acre Wood. I mowed a winding path through the tall grass for my son’s motorcycle, turning the field into a racetrack. It wasn’t ours, but for years, it felt like part of our family’s story.
One afternoon, that story was interrupted.
As I turned onto our street, I saw a group of neighbors gathered in the cul-de-sac. Hands were in the air. Faces were tight with panic. When I pulled into the driveway and stepped out, the first words I heard were, “Scott, it’s awful”.
The city, we were told, planned to build a fire station on the five acres.
Shock quickly turned to anger. Conversations escalated from concern to outrage, lawsuits, protests and scorched-earth resistance. Since our house sat closest to the property, emotions were especially intense. I’ll admit, I got swept up in it. The idea of losing what had become our family’s backyard felt personal, and the community’s “burn it down” mindset spread fast.
A few days later, on a quiet Saturday morning, the emotional noise finally settled. I stood on my back porch with a cup of hot tea, the grass still wet with dew, and allowed myself to think.
The landowner had the right to sell his property. The city had an obligation to protect and serve the community. Firefighters willingly risk their lives for people they may never meet. And the trught I didn’t want to face was this: The land was never mine. Our family had been fortunate to enjoy it for years.
The weekend, my wife and I made a decision. We would not participate in the outrage. Instead of resisting the change, we would welcome our new neighbors.
Construction came and went. Dir piles replaced tall grass, and my kids found new adventures climbing them. The fence everyone assummed we’d build never went up. When the fire station opened, we attended the ceremony. Over time, relationships formed.
My son became a frequent and welcome visitor at the station. Firefighters let him climb on the trucks, help wash them and learn about their work. On warm days, they tested water cannons and sprayed the kids running through the field. Sometimes the smell of grilling drifted across our shared property line. Other times, they cheered as my daughter practiced gymnastics on the trampoline.
What we though was an ending turned out to be a beginning.
Change has a way of confronting us with a choice – not the choice to approve of it or celebrate it, but the choice of how we respond once it’s here. We don’t always get to decide what happens around us, but we do choose what kind of neighbors, parents and community members we become in the process. Even when change is unwelcome, our response shapes far more than the event ever could.
In our case, welcoming the fire station didn’t shrink our world. It expanded it. We gained neighbors we respect, family lessons and experiences we didn’t anticipate, and a deeper appreciation for the people who serve our community.
Sometimes the most powerful things we can do when change arrives isn’t to burn it down, but to build something better together. May our behavior be so loud that it speaks louder than our words.
