Hub City
I remember driving one night to say goodbye to some friends. Switchfoot's Learning to Breathe played on loop in my car. I was leaving for college and it felt like the end of the world and the beginning of a brand new one. That was fifteen years ago. And tonight I felt an overwhelming sense of deja vu.
Spartanburg, South Carolina is known as Hub City. The nickname came from the way train lines back in the day made my hometown look like the center of a wheel. Growing up, the name always struck me as ironic because we always seemed to be on the periphery rather than the center of everything that was going on. I kind of think that is how most kids view their hometowns. There's that itch to flee to supposedly greener pastures.
The reality is Spartanburg has been the hub of my existence since my family moved here the summer before I began third grade. This is where I grew up, where I learned to drive, and where my home has been. What seemed like the end of the world to that 18 year old turned out to be just an interlude. EA and I bought our first house here and then a second. Both of our sons were born here. It is home and has been for nearly twenty-five years. Stints in Atlanta and neighboring Greenville were just temporary stays until gravity pulled me back to the center.
But tomorrow we'll reach escape velocity as we drive up I-26 and then head west on 40 to Nashville. I feel excitement and twinge of sadness. I will miss my family and friends. Thankfully, we can still stay in touch and visit. I will miss the familiarity though I feel increasingly like a stranger. My high school was razed over a decade ago and moved down the interstate. It's like the refrain repeated on Arcade Fire's The Suburbs: They built this town to change. And I've changed too, but sometimes it seems like on a different wavelength.
I think what is hardest is something more intangible. I told my friend Bailey the other day that I was mourning the childhood my kids are not going to have. I envisioned them going to the schools in which I grew up. I saw them becoming young men in the church where they were dedicated as babies. I pictured many years of us living as a family in our house. This city was going to become their hub too. Now it's not. It isn't like they are not going to have a great childhood in Nashville. It will be awesome, but there's melancholy in the future you thought disappearing into the mist.
It's the end of the world as I know it. My parents won't be a short drive away. I won't be able to go to my brother's house whenever he has video game nights. Yesterday I stood in the driveway and hugged my little sister before she left for her new home in Missouri. Our church of seven years, favorite restaurants, Furman football games, the place where EA and I got married: all things that were close are going to be much further away.
Yet I feel fine. I am going to miss this city and state, as much as both have driven me crazy over the years. But I realize that sometimes you have to leave home to follow what you're called to do. And in the heart of Tennessee there is an incredible opportunity awaiting me and my family: a place to join in ministry at a wonderful church, future friends, and many memories-to-be. I'm excited. I've used that word way too often recently, but I am excited.
Even though I have a new home, Hub City will always be my hometown. A hometown that has molded me into who I am today. I am forever grateful and indebted to so many people there. And though I would not have always thought this, I am fortunate that Spartanburg has been the hub of my existence for so much of my life.
