People, Place, Prayer.

These are our roots.

. . . 

Places change us, and we change them. Everything is in relationship.

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For years now, I've thought about the intersection of local church community and steady faithfulness, a small thread of which was the blog post about Pastor Steve a while back. Lately, my thoughts have centered on roots of place and family-- how they inform and shape our values and actions, their permanence or lack thereof, what it means to pass them on to the next generation, and what it means to move away and leave them behind.

I've always been deeply rooted to this specific land which I call home. Growing up with a large extended family nearby was normal, family gatherings were many and frequent, and a childhood spent roaming land that had been in the family for several generations instilled in me immutable ties to people and place. This was all I knew. Even for those years after I moved away, this land and these people were bound up in my bones, and they always will be. 

Since moving into the Old Homestead, these roots have taken even stronger shape. Watching my children's feet swiftly tumble over floorboards worn bare by the feet of their great-great grandparents, their great-grandfather, their aunt and uncle, and their older cousins before them puts actual flesh on the intangible. My children are the fifth generation of family to call this place home. They, too, roam on land that their mother, grandmother, great-grandfather, and great-great grandfather knew. They fed chickens in the same coop in which kin kept chickens 100 years ago.  They grew up eating apples and cherries from trees their great-great grandfather planted and picking their great-great grandmother's old-fashioned roses. These roots are bound up in their bones, and they always will be.

I believe this is important, and I believe it is a gift.

One of my greatest pleasures has been watching my children over the years rediscover the hollows and hills and secret spaces of my own childhood. I've watched them grow from childhood to young adulthood in these spaces and with these people I hold close.  Stories and family intertwine with the land and the geography itself. 

Even with all my dreams of travel and adventure, this is the land on which I want to live, and this is the land on which I want to die. 

I have conclusions but none to share in this space. The impetus for piling haphazard thoughts in a heap, though, is an essay John sent me yesterday that was written by Paul Kingsnorth, someone whose works I've enjoyed who is also a fairly recent convert to Christ. His essay is already sinking deep and provoking further thought, even at the unwelcome hour of 2 o'clock a.m. Some people I've known have longer time-ties to family and place than I do, and the Irishman he references in the essay would laugh at the short-lived, comparatively shallow roots that bind me and my children to these people and this place-- what's 150 years compared to 1,000? These days, though, it seems like many folks have little to none, living their lives fresh in each new space and leaving behind what came before. What does all this signify? 

Perhaps, in spite of those romantic dreams of worldwide travel, I'm a provincialist at heart.  In the best meaning of the term, I suppose I am.

If these topics carry any weight with you, maybe you, too, would appreciate reading it. (To access the complete essay, you have to sign up for a seven-day free trial. I think it's worth it. If you want to read it but have a moral obligation against signing up for free trials, I'd be happy to share it over email.)

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In other news, the peonies bow low, roses spill over, and after another full day's work, we've finally finished planting all the gardens and have nearly finished laying the black plastic mulch. Praise the Lord for these mercies. A few days ago, my mom stopped in and mentioned that all the flowers we've planted over the years would make my great-grandma happy, as she loved flowers and grew many here at the Old Homestead. A small thing, yes, but hearing it made me happy, too, and this one truth can tie a jumbled post together with a bright bow.