A Walk Through Time: Spiritual Renewal on the Coosa River

The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I walk the old path on Buck Island—now transformed into a sprawling subdivision of yellow, pink, and chartreuse homes that feel more at home in Key West than in the quiet foothills of the Appalachians. It’s June 1, 2025, at 6:29 AM—my first walk since December 2024, when I last strolled the busy streets of

Homewood, Alabama. Back then, I sought escape from the concrete, the noise, and the nonstop motion. Now, walking through Southside, I see it changing into the very thing I fled—a patchwork of bright houses creeping over land once sacred to me. Yet in this moment, as the sun rises over the Coosa River, I feel something divine: a fiery orange light breaking through the trees, resting on the metal gate that marks the entrance to my “Little Bridge” property.

Birdsong breaks the silence like a morning hymn. I breathe in the scent of wet earth and feel the whisper of God’s creation coming to life. This isn’t just a walk—it’s a return. A reckoning. A communion with memories and a reminder of the spiritual path that has shaped me since 2019, the year I went to the light and came back forever changed.

In the 1970s and 80s, Buck Island was my Eden. I’d visit my aunt and uncle in Southside, rifle or BB gun slung over my shoulder, a parade of dachshunds barking at my heels. This land belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Lumpkin, who ran Buck’s Boat—a legacy now carried on by their son, Tony. I was a curious, free-thinking kid in a living classroom of nature: turtles sunning on logs, rabbits darting through the brush, snakes gliding in the grass. My days were filled with wonder and simplicity—churning pistachio or peach ice cream, watching Pete Rose and the Cincinnati Reds, Hank Aaron with the Braves, and cheering for Roger Staubach and the Dallas Cowboys. I didn’t know I was witnessing sacred moments until they became memories.

Today, the slew across from my property remains—a glassy, reflective stretch of water that mirrors the sky and trees. A white heron glides across it silently, like an angel in flight. The scene is eternal. But just beyond my gate, change spreads. Southside, once a town of fewer than 1,200 farmers and ranchers, has grown into a city. Where there was once wilderness, now stand rows of bright, prefabricated homes, out of place amid the subtle tones of the Appalachians. What used to be sanctuary now feels like intrusion. Still, the sunrise wraps everything in a golden forgiveness, softening even the hardest edges.

This tension between the past and the present mirrors my spiritual walk. In 2019, I had a near-death experience—a moment of pure light that rewired my soul. Like Augustine of Hippo wrote in City of God, I came to understand the distinction between the earthly and the eternal. The modern subdivision, with its “beautiful window dressings in the back and ugly tin buildings,” is the City of Man—restless, impermanent. But the river, the heron, the sunrise—these belong to the City of God, reminders of the eternal I now chase with every step.

I don’t reject progress. I marvel at the audacity of Elon Musk’s Starship and the possibility of watching Earthrise from Mars. I applaud the engineers who catch rockets midair. But there’s a line between forward motion and forgetfulness—between innovation and erasure. Southside’s transformation stings. I feel the ache of losing a piece of home to the march of time.

And yet, here I stand, beside the gate, the sunlight rising like a benediction. After weeks of storms, this morning offers a new beginning. The Coosa still flows. The mountains still stand. And God still whispers in the wind.

This walk ends as the sun clears the treetops, its warmth brushing my face like a sacred touch. I carry with me the laughter of childhood, the wildness of Buck Island, and the dachshunds that ran with me through gravel and grass. But I also carry 2019—a year of light, a year that split my life in two. Like Augustine, I’ve learned to seek the eternal within the temporal, the sacred within the ordinary.

Southside may look more like Homewood now, but faith teaches me to see with different eyes. The beauty endures. The promise remains. And with every sunrise, I begin again.

Darryl