Family

I’ve been thinking a lot about family these days. I just got home from 3 days spent with my Dad and as I rode in the pickup truck with him, fixing fence, checking cattle, and loading hay bales, the day to day work of farming, I walked memory lane.

I don’t get home much. I left my hometown in 1974 when I graduated from high school with no real ambition to return, though I loved the little Kansas town where I grew up. And if you’ve read my blog much, you know that I have a heart for the heartland and most especially the state of Kansas where I grew up and have returned once more. Something unwinds in me when I see the land I love spread out in a patchwork panorama before me, riding through the cool morning, the scent of summer rain mixed with alfalfa hay and the musky smells of Daddy’s old truck.

This trip was bittersweet as last week we buried Daddy’s wife who had also been raised here and then returned to marry Daddy 12 very happy years ago. There is something about the place where you have family roots that calls to you no matter where you roam.

My granddad homesteaded this land in Southwest Kansas in 1909. He traveled here from his home in a more populous part of Kansas and broke the sod with a hand plow and planted wheat, then returned to his home to wait for Spring.

The farm is nestled among low hills in “Pleasant Valley,” so when he returned with his bride the next Spring, as the covered wagon lumbered over the low hills he decided if there was no crop they would return home and he’d try something else. Daddy remembers well the oft-told story of them topping the hill to see the fresh green wheat bright against the dark soil and beep blue Kansas sky. They built a home and raised 7 children and my Dad is the only living boy and still farming that same land.

We talked of favorite family memories—his as well as mine. His favorite memory of his dad was all his brothers and sisters bundled up in an old truck on Christmas Eve to look for Santa, his Dad guiding the way down the dirt roads until he was sure Santa was spotted heading to the farm. When they returned, the presents were under the tree and Santa had just left!

One of my favorite childhood memories is much the same only there were only three of us bundled into a warm car heading out into the Christmas Eve night to look for the Jolly Old Fellow in the red suit. Though it was there year round, a red light on a signal tower just north of town, magically was transformed into Rudolph’s nose in Christmas Eve and we were sure we’d seen the sleigh pulled by 8 reindeer heading toward our house and sure enough, when we returned, we’d just missed him!

Simple stories and simple fun but traditions woven into the stuff of life and family. But in the Body of Christ, family has even deeper roots and branches that nourish us like the fertile soil of the farm I love.

The funeral was held at the church I attended as a child, the dinner lovingly prepared and served by ladies who taught Sunday School and drove cars to skating parties in my youth. They were the first members of the family of God that I knew as they taught and served and loved and cared for the church family. They had a great influence on my life as I accepted Jesus in that church during a Lay Witness Mission in 1971 and looked to them for guidance in how to live the life of faith I’d chosen.

The church building I attended is gone now—replaced after I graduated high school so the sanctuary and fellowship hall were different, but the beautiful stained glass windows that had ministered to me in their light and beauty had been restored and filled the new sanctuary with light and beauty and many memories of staring at the skylight and pondering the wonderful mystery of Christ and His love for me. The building was filled with friends and family and the service was beautiful, the music and prayers a fitting loving tribute to a lovely woman who enriched our lives and loved my Dad. It was bittersweet visiting with so many who I have not seen in years, but who laughed with me and remembered and cared that my family was grieving and did all they could do to ease the pain.

The day before the funeral Pastor David had taught on the Body—how we all have different parts in the Body of Christ but all are important and I was reminded of that as I spent time in the church of my youth. Once again, I was loved and cared for and shown Christ by the hugs and smiles, the shared tears, the lovely dinner and decorations that reflected Daddy’s western flair and through it all I knew the love of Christ through the work of the church. It eased the grief and filled my heart and brought back memories of other times of fellowship with the same church because truly, the church is the people, not the buildings that contain them.

So, thank you, ladies of the Methodist Church in Protection, Kansas. I love you and thank you for the blessing you have been throughout my life. As Christ loved you, you have loved others and that makes a difference.

It did to me. Growing up in that church and meeting Jesus changed my life. So no matter where we roam or how long between visits, we are still family through the roots of shared faith.

Blessings,

Kim