The Spanish moss waved gently from the limbs of the hundred-year-old oak trees still standing tall and proud against the deep blue sky. The shade they generously provided my park bench was a blessed relief in the Georgia summer evening. The sweet smell of azaleas drifted by on the breeze. As we waited for our dinner reservation, I closed my eyes and listened to a lonesome melody sliding off the strings of a fiddle somewhere across the square. As the fireflies came out to dance, I thought to myself once again, There is just no place on earth quite like Savannah.
We climbed up the uneven front steps of the stately mansion. My jaw dropped as my eyes tried to take in every detail of that grand old home. I had never seen any place like it. We took our seats at a cozy table for two in front of a parlor fireplace. I felt like we had just stepped back in time.
It was easy to imagine the important business conducted over there at a desk by the window. I could almost see the stately men looking out over the square, smoking pipes and discussing the colonial politics of the day. I pictured the children who might’ve made the scuffs on the old plank floors as their elegantly dressed mothers sipped tea by the fire.
Every ornate detail of this 250-year-old home had been exquisitely preserved. Or, at least, that’s what I assumed. But I was wrong.
Savannah’s incredible historic district has been an inspiration to cities all over the world. But what we don’t always realize is that those beautiful, grand homes weren’t always so pristine. Back in the 1950s, those same homes were hollowed out, broken shells. They stood as just a wisp of a memory of their former selves with floors rotting, windows busted, ceilings leaking. One by one, the city began to raze the mansions to make room for parking garages…
I would love for you to click through to continue reading the remainder of this post at The Glorious Table. Come see how we are not much different than those hollowed out homes, but God is faithful to restore.