Gold and rose light tinge the lacy curtains. Glancing at my alarm clock, I decide it’s time to admit defeat in my battle for more sleep and trying not to make much noise, I slip out to the kitchen. After a few moments of rummaging, I find the coffee and filters in the cabin’s kitchen. The amount of grounds recommended on the tin looks lonely in the white wrinkles, so I add a generous portion and set the pot to percolate. There’s a mug in the cabinet that has “I love my grandpa” scribbled in bright crayon font on the side. Somehow, it seems profoundly appropriate for this morning.
Grandpa’s memorial service is later this morning. I ache for my dad and uncle, knowing the next few hours will be difficult. Wandering to the deck door, I push open the screen and inhale crisp, moist air. Before me, a dew-dripped field stretches toward winding Back Mountain Road, broken only by the slate pebbled driveway. My ear catches the faint clip-clop of horse hooves on pavement, and I search the road until a lone ebony buggy emerges from a clump of silhouetted trees. A smile plays on my mouth as I remember the delighted giggles of my cousin’s five-year-old upon feeding a horse for the first time yesterday. I hope that he treasures his memories of Big Valley as much I do.
Now, several days after returning to Kansas, I get to add a few more beautiful memories. Like reading grave markers and road signs entitled Zook, Kanagy, and Stoltfuz and realizing that my last name fits in for once. Or when a relative I’d never met walked up to me and said, “I wouldn’t have had to ask. You have Esh eyes,” and gave me a hug. And the box of food and friendly handshake waiting at the cabin when we arrived. The easy references to God in everyday conversation; the pizza meal that appeared in the hands of all the Big Valley cousins; the genuine concern in people’s eyes as far-flung family members shared the happenings of the last several years; the way people lingered over gatherings, making the time count.
I was sipping very black coffee and watching the sun burn away the mist over a valley at peace when I began to realize what I have lost. You see, somewhere between what I’ve been taught to believe and thinking for myself, between a mile-wide independent streak and being saved from legalism, between selective hearing and issues with how principles are presented, I threw away a treasure: a deep appreciation for my heritage.
Forgive me for rambling, but I’m still figuring out my thoughts and their implications. What I do know is that I was profoundly blessed and cared for by people who barely know me. People who are connected not only by blood, but also in spirit. It has something to do with a family tradition of shared and private relationship with a mutual Friend. I’m still deciding what else. But I want to pass on the inheritance I experienced. It might mean eating my words or changing my mind about a few things, which is honestly a little scary. It grates on my pride and self-righteousness. That in itself should tell me it’s worth it. I hope I take the opportunity to pass on a handshake, a hug, and a box of food to someone else. I’d hate for the tradition to die with me.
Grandpa’s memorial service is later this morning. I ache for my dad and uncle, knowing the next few hours will be difficult. Wandering to the deck door, I push open the screen and inhale crisp, moist air. Before me, a dew-dripped field stretches toward winding Back Mountain Road, broken only by the slate pebbled driveway. My ear catches the faint clip-clop of horse hooves on pavement, and I search the road until a lone ebony buggy emerges from a clump of silhouetted trees. A smile plays on my mouth as I remember the delighted giggles of my cousin’s five-year-old upon feeding a horse for the first time yesterday. I hope that he treasures his memories of Big Valley as much I do.
Now, several days after returning to Kansas, I get to add a few more beautiful memories. Like reading grave markers and road signs entitled Zook, Kanagy, and Stoltfuz and realizing that my last name fits in for once. Or when a relative I’d never met walked up to me and said, “I wouldn’t have had to ask. You have Esh eyes,” and gave me a hug. And the box of food and friendly handshake waiting at the cabin when we arrived. The easy references to God in everyday conversation; the pizza meal that appeared in the hands of all the Big Valley cousins; the genuine concern in people’s eyes as far-flung family members shared the happenings of the last several years; the way people lingered over gatherings, making the time count.
I was sipping very black coffee and watching the sun burn away the mist over a valley at peace when I began to realize what I have lost. You see, somewhere between what I’ve been taught to believe and thinking for myself, between a mile-wide independent streak and being saved from legalism, between selective hearing and issues with how principles are presented, I threw away a treasure: a deep appreciation for my heritage.
Forgive me for rambling, but I’m still figuring out my thoughts and their implications. What I do know is that I was profoundly blessed and cared for by people who barely know me. People who are connected not only by blood, but also in spirit. It has something to do with a family tradition of shared and private relationship with a mutual Friend. I’m still deciding what else. But I want to pass on the inheritance I experienced. It might mean eating my words or changing my mind about a few things, which is honestly a little scary. It grates on my pride and self-righteousness. That in itself should tell me it’s worth it. I hope I take the opportunity to pass on a handshake, a hug, and a box of food to someone else. I’d hate for the tradition to die with me.
