A little over 10 years ago, I remember sitting in the passenger seat of an old pickup as it climbed a windy canyon through pine trees. When we reached the top, the road straightened and plateaued and seemingly cut through a sea of amber wheat fields that stretched for miles in front of us. In the distance I could see a tiny town that was nestled under cartoon clouds.
“This is where you grew up?” I asked my boyfriend in disbelief.
“Yup!” he responded.
As we made our way through town, I was swallowing judgement that kept bubbling up into my throat. Why would anyone choose to live here? After growing up in a place of abundance and hustle, I was shocked to see a town whose population was the same size as my high school.
“You know I was the class president, right?” He said, smiling at me playfully. “I mean, there were only 32 kids in my graduating class, so it wasn’t too competitive.”
My jaw dropped as I looked at him skeptically. “And you never wanted to leave?”
“I left for college, but I came back. This is where I want to be. There’s something to be said about roots, you know.”
The only roots I was familiar with were a shallowly planted second-generational tie to evergreens and salt water. This was different. He was the sixth generation to be born and raised in this farming community. His family photos hang in the county museum and his home is decorated with old farming equipment from his great grandfather.
What was I doing? How could I stay in relationship with someone that had no interest in leaving his rural roots and seeing the world? How could I picture myself thriving in a place that felt cut off from the rest of the world?
Love is a funny thing. All of those plans for your life that you’ve meticulously scrolled out on paper—well, Love is one of those pink erasers. It erases all of the “I would nevers” in your plans and instead writes in “Give it a chance.” It replaces the inflexible with willingness. Of course, this didn’t happen overnight, though.
A few years later, I would stand on the edge of a wheat field and watch as my husband’s combine cut a path through the grain in my direction. He would pull up next to me, climb down the side of that machine and march through the stubble towards me. I would hand him a brown sack lunch with too many cookies and he would lean over to kiss me and whisper at my belly, “Next year, you’ll be driving with me, buddy.”
When I gave birth to our first child, we also gave birth to the next generation—the seventh, to be exact. My children are the roots I unknowingly planted; roots that anchor my runaway soul and tie me to a place that is both sacred and meaningful to not just my husband.
I was naïve to think that ‘rural’ meant ‘lacking.’ I was ignorant to assume that the richness I desired could not be found amongst a community different than my own. After we almost lost our son to Type 1 Diabetes, the entire community rallied around our family. We had meals made for us, medical bills paid off anonymously, and letters of strength and admiration sent our way. This kind of community was foreign to me. I had never felt love in this capacity before and I feel foolish for having resisted loving this place for so long.
Now, 10 years later, we are driving up the same windy canyon that leads to the same sea of wheat. All of our children are sound asleep in the car, but as approach town, our eldest wakes.
“I like this feeling.” He sighs from the back.
“What feeling, bud?” I ask.
“The ‘coming home’ feeling. I just like coming home.”
I turn to my husband and suddenly I’m back in that old pickup 10 years earlier, smiling at a man that feels the same way.
***
About the Author
This month's theme GENERATIONS is brought to you by Hylands Homeopathy. Trust a company who has been around over 100 years to know a thing or two about generations of moms.