Sam Cooke had it wrong. Despite what he says in his classic song, "Wonderful World," where among other subjects he submits to not know or care much about he says he "don't know much about geography," he really does. We all do. Unless we suffer some mental illness that divorces us from the objective world around us, we are keenly aware of our geography.

Babies begin their study of geography with their mother's and then father's faces. I remember my son and daughter seriously studying my face, trying to take it in, as if they were memorizing its every line. And really, if I think deeply enough, I can remember looking at my own parents' faces, remembering as a two-year old what they looked like. (I didn't know it then, but I think what they looked like was tired.)

When I was three my geography consisted of my yard -- the swings, the patio, the hill that dropped off in back, the fence that marked off my playground, my home. When I rode places in the car, I memorized the other places we went -- my grandmother's, the Mom 'n Pop grocery store at Pomona, the train tracks that crossed the wading creek, my father's appliance dealership with all the gleaming washers and dryers and absolutely huge stockroom with all its places to hide and play. Yet I could not connect these islands in my mind, had no perspective of where on earth I was.

Geography. We keep learning. Today the back yard, tomorrow the world. By six or seven I'm running over the entire neighborhood of Guilford Hills, a seamless country of backyards, end on end, and with a bike under me a superhighway around every corner. There are other kids, different than the ones on my block, other families. Up Fernwood, right on Graceland, right on Pembroke, and right on Surry. And then I do it again, fast down the hill, showing off, noting the location of that particular tree, that particular stream, that particular house. My block. My geography.

It gets bigger as you go doesn't it? My mother's face. My room. The back yard. The neighborhood. The city -- Tearing through the streets of my city at 3:00 AM on one ocassion, I was struck with the wonder of the journey, with my place in the world over and against any other place in the world. And then, somewhere in high school, I woke up to the rest of the world. And I keep waking up.

We don't live in abstractions. When I say home, or Mom, or favorite toy, or childhood room, or friend, you likely have a concrete image in mind or can easily summon one up. I do. These things (let's call them landmarks) tell us who we are and where we have come from. They root us in the world. When they are destroyed or modified, we feel less rooted. We have lost a landmark. It is less easy to navigate the emotional landscape of life. Something has been taken from us.

This loss of landscape is a daily loss. After reconstructing our house after a house fire, it's places have changed. It is not the same. I miss the door jamb with pencil marks noting my growing children. I miss familiar corners, the place where my daughter colored on the wall (and got in trouble), and eating in our kitchen. Something was gained, but something is lost too.

Change is ongoing. The fabric and landscape of my life is malleable. I'm longing for something permanent, fixed, and enduring. By God's grace, one day I'll have just that.