our roots

Roots are good, holy things, and sometimes it's a really simple thing to remember them. I will never forget that my Swiss grandpa grew up listening to planes bomb the neighboring French town or that the German town my great-grandfather's parents moved to America from is a Polish place now or that I sleep in a bed that came from Vermont over a hundred years ago. But there are lots of things I have forgotten, too. There are stories that I will never know and there are stories that are lost to human life entirely. 

Neither my sister or I have ever lived in Bellingham, but after almost two decades of Thanksgivings, weekend visits, summer sleep overs, and day trips, it certainly feels that way. My mama grew up in a house on the beach out on Chuckanut drive (aka, the most beautiful bay in Bellingham). Later, she moved into town with her mama, into the little white house where her grandmother lived, a few blocks away from the high school. Bellingham is full of houses that have been home to our loved ones at some point in time. On the north side of town, there is a large, cozy, red brick house with a wide front porch. My grandpa and his little sister grew up in that green backyard and bright kitchen with the swinging doors. There are some tiny houses where our cousins live now, and a handful more filled with friends. Out in the county, there is a farmhouse with chickens out back, where our cousins live. On clear days, you can see Mount Baker across the field. In the next town north, there is another farmhouse, also with chickens out back and a sweeping view of Mount Baker, with other cousins. At the foot of this same mountain, there is a large cabin in the woods—the home of many childhood games of dress up and hide and go seek with our people. We never fail to point these houses out, making note of these pieces of our heritage. 

For as long as I can remember, I have dreamed of moving north someday and making Bellingham my home. I am not to that part of my life-story yet, but Lou and I discovered that we have gotten to the part where we can load up the car and make tracks, just the two of us. So last weekend we found ourselves lost in Henderson’s bookshelves, climbing rocks at Larrabee State Park, drinking soup at Village Books, wandering along Boulevard Park, eating gluten-free, vegan pizza downtown, and curled up in a cozy Ferndale living room, trading stories, because that's what life comes down to. Stories of how my grandpa and his senior class hauled a cow up to the top floor of the high school. How my parents had their wedding pictures taken at Boulevard Park before there was a coffee shop and when the dock at the north end was still there. How my grandma grew up next door to her cousins.

Lou and I made some life goals, too. She's going to go to Western and live on an old house on the hill, and I will buy a blue farmhouse and have lots of babies. Part of me wants to plead with God and ask that we just have it. I want to demand that life follows our neatly laid out plans. But the part of me listening to God--or rather letting God fill it with His truth--knows that His plans will be better made than any of those which we make for ourselves. He will give us what is best for us. Wherever we find ourselves at home--whether I'm in eastern France or on Bellingham Bay, while she's in Colorado or the Philippines, we'll watch the sun set over the horizon, cook good food, and strive to make sure our children have a place with roots, too.