My parents have given me a lot of great gifts over the
years. I remember the Christmas of the
new saddle, the pink birthday bicycle, lots of favorite outfits, my first phone
(back in the days where it flipped open, the antenna pulled out, I only had 150
total minutes and texting didn’t even exist), and countless other wonderful
things. However, this past weekend, I
was reminded of two of the very best gifts they ever gave me… my roots and my
wings.
On Sunday, I had the rare privilege of worshiping in my home
church. When you marry a preacher, you
don’t make it back to your hometown on Sunday mornings very often, so it is a
very special treat when it happens. I
was raised in a red brick church, surrounded by cornfields, just a couple miles
from our house. Growing up, many
families were farm families like mine, and many families had more than one
generation there in the church. Over the
years the building has changed and grown, some of the families I knew have come
and gone as happens in churches, but as I walked in on Sunday morning I couldn’t
help but feel such a sense of gratefulness for the roots I have there. Communion meditation was led by a man I have
known and admired all my life, and he used 3 ears of corn and a farming reference
to drive home a powerful message. The
men passing the trays mostly wore boots and jeans, as they have all my
life. I was hugged and waved at by
former Sunday school teachers and friends’ parents. I got to visit with high school friends who
are now raising their own children in that church and stand in between my
parents as we sang during the worship service.
As I stood there taking it all in, I was almost overwhelmed by how
deeply planted my roots are there. It
was there I developed a passion for serving in worship ministry, back when I
was still small enough I had to stand on a stool to help lead songs. I learned what it meant to sacrifice of your
time, energy, and talents to volunteer in aspects of ministry, as I watched my parents
and other role models give freely of themselves. I fell in love with the stories of the Old
Testament and how God continually pursued His people through Sunday school
teachers and children’s church leaders.
I learned what it meant to live in community with other believers
through a close-knit youth group and the way we were taken care of by each
other’s parents on several occasions. I
was encouraged, supported, and loved through all my formative years, and even
now, I feel the same way walking back through those doors. Yes, over the years the faces and leaders
have changed, the programs have different names, the music sounds
different. But it was there, that the
roots to my faith were planted deeply and firmly. They were nurtured and tended so that once I
started to grow my roots would keep my solidly grounded.
My parents rooted us in family. As we celebrated my Great-Aunt’s 93rd
birthday this weekend, there was a lot of time to reminisce about memories and
visit with family that we don’t see often enough. I got to have one of those late-night chats
with my sister where we solved all the world’s problems, and I was reminded yet
again how much I miss living closer to her.
The antics of my little cowboy brought the familiar sound of laughter
from my grandpa that I so dearly love to hear.
My mom and Granny kept our bellies too full, and (a)’s teasing interactions
with my uncle reminded me of similar teasing from 30 years ago.
They rooted us in community, agriculture, work ethic, and
responsibility. Harvest has started for
my dad, and I doubt I will ever think of harvest without thinking of the year
he took a fall and broke several ribs at harvest time. I was in college, and while he was in the hospital
I just kept stressing about how I was going to manage keeping up with my work
at Purdue while needing to go home and help get harvest done while he was
hurt. But I didn’t have to stress long,
because a neighbor stepped in to help.
We were rooted in community.
Our roots were planted deeply and firmly. They were solid enough to keep us anchored in
the things that mattered most, and when the time was right, those roots allowed
us accept and use our next gift… our wings.
As I reminisced this weekend, I also couldn’t help but think
of how much life has happened, really in just the few short years since I
spread my wings. I will forever be
grateful that my parents encouraged us to fly.
I know it is easier to keep your family close beside you, but the gift
of being willing to let go means the world.
They always encouraged us to follow our dreams and where God was taking
our lives, even if that didn’t bring us home for more than a visit. The night they dropped me off for my freshman
year of college, my mom didn’t cry. I
would like to think that inside it was hard for her, but she never let it show
on the outside, because she wanted me to spread my wings and discover who God
was creating me to be. She remined me
that she was raising me- to let me go.
What a wonderful gift. Learning
to fly hasn’t always been easy, and I still love the chance to return to their
nest from time to time, but it has allowed me to grow and see things differently,
and follow God’s direction for my life.
Flying has given me opportunities I didn’t see coming, and a chance to
discover and nurture gifts and talents God placed deep inside of me.
Roots to stand firm and wings to fly- thanks Mom & Dad
for such great gifts. I pray that I will
be able to pass them on to our son one day.
And I’m glad that you are still watering our roots, and allowing us to
fly home when we get the chance.
“So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live
your lives in Him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you
were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.” Colossians 2:6-7
