When the people fear the government, there is tyranny. When the government fears the people, there is liberty.
Thomas Jefferson
Growing up, I considered the Fourth of July the main event. Each year, we would don our finest patriotic attire. Complete only with boots and spurs. We would all mount up as Dad unloaded the horses at the Sale Barn. Some years, Mom rode; other years, she watched with delight next to our dear family friend, Mr. Harvey. We enjoyed participating in the parade with all our friends next to us. Our parade stood out because of the horse and rider section. They came in by the scores, and as far as you could see, horses clipped down the main street of Fort Pierre in a grand display of how the West remains.
From a day full of rodeo fun and a cooler full of fried chicken and potato salad, the Fourth of July became a hard act to follow as the years passed. I wondered if such heart-warming pleasure could ever captivate my soul again. Creating an atmosphere worth duplicating for our children should be a goal we set to achieve. Yet, I was convinced the parade had passed me by.
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Hearing of a small-town parade on a country road right here in our hometown, I proudly announced to my family that we would participate. Chuck, with his quiet demeanor, and Eva, with her innocent persona, both stared at me. At the time, Charlotte, only a year old, giggled in her usual agreement. We knew not a soul then, but I didn’t care. It had been nearly twenty years since I had seen a patriotic parade, and I was not missing it!
We shined up the old truck and decorated it in Fourth of July splendor! Everyone climbed aboard and enjoyed throwing out candy as the people waved. I was captivated by the crowd in the middle of nowhere and the cheery greetings people were passing out. I took notice of all the children on their bicycles, ready to lead the charge. My curiosity was pricked.
What started as a kid’s bike parade almost fourteen years ago has become an anticipated showcase of small-town thrills and ideals. Country places line the road at a fair distance from one another, leaving plenty of room to enjoy your privacy while still enjoying your neighbors; large shade trees are positioned in front of a beautiful white rail fence that lines the countryside. It invites the onlookers to set up lawn chairs for their watchful enjoyment. Where the fields are thick, and cotton catches on the wind, hats are removed, and heads are bowed in honor of God, family, and country.
Fire trucks, old sheriff cars, side-by-sides, and tractors line up for the grander of the morning. An old-fashioned ice cream truck will complete the morning’s festivities. Smiles cover faces as people gather to watch the kids’ bicycles lead the way. A small parade from the backroads of nowhere became all the somewhere we needed.
My folks returned to our hometown of Pierre, SD, to enjoy the Fourth of July and parade last year. Talking to my father early on the 4th, as we always do, we reminisced about loading horses for the big parade and loading the green Coleman cooler (which they still have). Later that day, after they had watched the parade pass by, he called to tell me something on his mind. It was a conversation that changed my thinking permanently.
My heart was soaring with the enjoyment of friends, family, and a parade God had given me back. Yet, a part of me still lived in the past.
My father said, “Sis, the parade here hasn’t changed much. Horses are still unloaded behind the Sale Barn, and the strong symbol of the West lives on with wagons, horse and rider, tractors, and old cars. But, he continued, I want you to listen to me. As I sat watching with fond memories of my young girls riding beside me in the parade, memories that are precious to your mom and me, we noticed we had no real connection here anymore. Although we have many friends that will remain forever kindred to us, we didn’t know many faces that passed us by or stood around us. You can’t go back, Sis; you can only move forward. Your children will remember the parade on Mason Road, decorating their bikes with all the kindred spirits that surround them, perhaps even riding their horses one day. Don’t go chasing dreams somewhere you can’t catch them when God has blessed you with hometown dreams to be envied. Don’t let the parade pass you by.”
It has been three years since our first exposure to this patriotic gem tucked away on a country backroad. We will return again this year and enjoy hellos from friends who were once strangers. Our girls will have decorated bikes for the festivity, and Tyson will roll in a stroller to match. A grill will smoke, a pool will make waves, and fireworks will explode with glitter sprinkling over a full moon. I will watch kids run with sparklers in peaceful bliss, and I will think fondly back to days gone by, but this time, I draw great pleasure from seeing how God heard my quiet prayers. He produced in detail what I was unsure could be duplicated.
I may take my kids to show them my old haunts one day, but their memories are here. Our life is here. Life is in the living. God brings new seasons and friendships. Who knew a small-town bike parade could touch someone’s life so deeply? Don’t underestimate what God has gifted you with and whatever you do – don’t let the parade pass you by.
Honor all men. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honor the king. 1 Peter 2:17
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