When I was three years old we moved into the farm house that my father grew up in. At that time my grandparents moved into a newly-built smaller house on the far corner of the farm (about 1/4 mile away). Nearly every day I used to run through the fields barefoot to visit my grandparents. Grandma had lemonade, date-filled cookies and lots of grandmotherly sweetness waiting for me. Gramps and I engaged in serious rounds of checkers and carrums (the only situation in which minor cussing was permissible), accompanied by heavy doses of theological and political ramblings followed by stories of the olden days which included growing up on the South Dakota prairie, enduring the Great Depression, and sticking it out through the Dust Bowl. My Grandparents have long ago passed, and my husband and I just recently moved into their cosy little house with our four children. I can scarcely string together the words to adequately describe the growing lump of nostalgia stuck in my throat that wont be swallowed as I daily watch my five-year-old daughter run barefoot through the fields to be at her grandparents heels - running down the same path worn down by me. I can feel the ingredients of a long simmering gathering of stories beginning to stew. Down the road Im hoping there will be a book birthed from the potential of this moment in time, one that might weave parallel human stories together which span generations - our longings, our failures, our shared genetic dispositions and our unique expressions of faith shaped by our unique times and places.
Posted on: Thu, 10 Jul 2014 01:11:44 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015