“You’ll have to work to pay me back for that table and dishcloth.” Those were my Granny’s exact words to me when at 11 years old, I clumsily tripped and crashed through her glass coffee table, incurring a massive injury to my arm for which I still bear the scar. After 26 stitches, massive blood loss, and a rather alarming emergency room visit, she looked right at me and plainly let me know that I’d be responsible for the material upheaval.
I don’t think I’ve ever actually paid her back for either. But I’ve never forgot that day. Her calm in the midst of my storm. Her steely resolve.
People aren’t made like my grandparents anymore. At least I haven’t met them yet. My Grandpa was born on the same piece of land he lives on today. He and my Granny raised all of their children and most of their grandchildren there as well.
They’ve lived a full life without ever going farther than a few states away from home. When I think back on my abundant childhood memories, those two people and that land tugs at something deep inside me.
It’s my roots. And I’m so glad that I have them.
I lived selfishly for a number of years resenting where I’d come from and not caring one bit for the rich heritage I’ve been given. But I don’t want to live that way anymore.
I don’t want to ignore the richness of this life just because it might not look like the world’s version of wealth. I don’t want to wait for a great story to fall in my lap when my family history has so much to offer me. Such a wealth of information to obtain and learn from two beautiful, worn human beings in the world of internet.
I love them dearly. I want to keep them with me and not forget the power that comes from a life lived slowly.
I don’t want to miss that lesson in the midst of this life of busyness.
To touch and feel and know history and wealth, I don’t have to look any farther than that land and those two people.
I won’t wait. I’m going after it.