I’ve always loved going home.
I love the just-long-enough drive.
The familiar small towns along Highway 65.
And the miles of farm land scattered with livestock.
Before the era of the iPhone (in my world anyways…circa 2011) I would burn podcasts and music onto a disc and would listen the whole way there and the whole way back.
Just me and my thoughts in the car.
At the end of a long day, knowing that in two hours I would be sitting around the kitchen table talking with my mom waiting for my dad to come home from work was enough to get me through some pretty rough weeks.
Last week my mom took me on her drive.
The drive home.
She grew up on a sweet, simple farm in the epitome of rural life in middle America.
Her mom made a lot of her clothes.
Every birthday cake.
And her dad could catch some pretty big fish.
I never had the joy of meeting either of them, but I could listen to stories about them for days.
And I can see so much of my mom in her dad’s eyes and her mom’s heart.
I think a lot about legacy.
Maybe too much.
I hope that one day our children will be able to see the home where I grew up.
And I hope even more for them to be loved, snuggled, read to, and pushed on the swings by their grandparents.