Ten years ago today my family moved to Macon, Ga. from the North Atlanta suburbs. It was an event I once swore would never take place.

In the summer of ‘77 I drove a van load of teens from Thomaston, Ga., on a July night to feast at the former Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour in Macon Mall. Walking through the dense humidity and heat coming off the parking lot, I muttered: “I don’t know why anybody would live in this town.”

Beyond the warm and sometimes sticky summers of Central Georgia, however, are warm friends we have grown to appreciate. They have shared this leg of life’s journey with kindness and care.

It is easy to pinpoint the exact time of our move to Macon. The truck was loaded with furniture on Dec. 29, 1999, and we drove on down to spend the night in a hotel. Then the furniture was delivered to our new house the next day.

The second day of unpacking was New Year’s Eve 1999, when many feared the strike of midnight would bring massive chaos.

Y2K turned out to be a bust. But if the world had come to an end that night, I may have been too tired and too deep into moving boxes to notice.

A lot of life has passed during our time of calling Macon home. Our daughters have grown up here — arriving at ages 1 and 6.

We found a church home at Highland Hills Baptist Church and have been warmly embraced by two other congregations, Mt. Zion and Vineville, where I enjoyed serving as interim pastor.

The proximity to Atlanta has given the dual benefit of easy access to the city without the daily commute. But before one thinks I work for the local convention and visitors’ bureau, not everything about living in Macon has been positive.

Historic Luther Williams Field was home to the Atlanta Braves single-A baseball team when we arrived. But the mayor and other city leaders let them slip away to Rome, Ga.

Another promise I once made was to never live in a town without professional baseball. Yet now I do. It’s just a good thing that the big ballpark in Atlanta is only an hour and 15 minutes away.

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