Small Town Stories

I LOVE small towns. I’ve lived in one for twenty-eight years. There is something special about a small American town. Each town may have its own eccentricities, but overall, they are all the same, wonderful places. They are full of people who know each other, without having to really know each other. They have history. They have charm. Mysteriously, they have a magnetic pull so that no matter how far you go, you always want to return as much as possible.

Growing up, I lived in a small town in West Virginia. I didn’t realize how special my hometown was until I was no longer living in it. It had a few schools, two grocery stores, a handful of restaurants, and a lot of churches. We felt safe riding our bikes in the summertime. We could leave our car running when we ran into the local 7-11 to rent a movie and to get a Slurpee. When our area experienced flooding, everyone rallied around each other to clean out homes and host those who were without a place to stay.

I went to college in 2004 and landed in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. Shepherdstown is a special small town. It is full of history and hosts a small university, my alma mater. Walking down Main Street and grabbing an organic smoothie was my favorite Sunday afternoon activity. People were friendly, and they embraced the college students that invaded their town each August. On my way to church each Sunday morning, I saw people doing yoga in a patch of grass in the town square. During Homecoming, the streets were alive with colorful floats, spirited spectators, and our mascot, Livingston the ram. (Yes, an actual ram roamed the streets.)

When I started my first “grown up” job, I moved to Farmville, Virginia. This small town also hosted a college. I regularly walked to the local movie theater. When I was feeling inspired, I would walk down town and take pictures of the architecture. This town is also full of history related to school integration in the 50’s. It wasn’t a favorable history. Time has passed, but that history isn’t forgotten. Nothing is forgotten in small towns.

Now that I’m married, I still live in a small town. As I write this, I’m sitting in the local coffee shop on Main Street. When I walked into this store, a passerby on the street said hello. The store owner next door waved. The owner of this establishment made my iced coffee and chatted about what’s going on in his life. Tonight after work, I’ll drive down the street to visit a friend. I’ll probably come home and ride my bike. This is small town life. My experience is not unique. It’s what we do, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’ve visited cities around the world- Amsterdam, London, Glasgow, Rome, New York and many others. I love the excitement of city life. I like the traffic, the sites, the culture. It’s all wonderful, but after a few weeks, I yearn for small town life. I can travel the world, but on my plane ride home, I’m homesick for my town.

This weekend, I will go home to West Virginia. I type this sentence and then look down at the tattoo on my right foot-Montani Semper Liberi– mountaineers are always free. This is true for all West Virginias. We are independent people who rarely conform. We’re pretty proud of that.

This weekend, I will put that right foot on the gas pedal and travel to my hometown for my ten year reunion. I can’t wait to see the mountains, to stop by 7-11 for pop (not soda), and to see the smiles of friends. I’ll visit my grandparents for a chat, for a cup of coffee, and to take home some homemade strawberry jelly. I’ll sit on the back porch with my parents in the evenings, and I will go to church with them on Sunday. I’ll visit friends, other small town natives, who now live all over the United States. We will talk about the past. We will talk about our family, careers, and adventures.

Yet, most of what we will say will be unspoken truths. We’ll sit beside each other and just know. We will know that this weekend will be therapy for most of us- an opportunity to reconnect with the mountains. Many of us will leave and drive on the same curvy roads, while thinking about all of those who have made the same journey before us. We will sigh when we leave the state, sad to leave.

We won’t cry though because we all know that we will return. We always do. Main Street always calls for us. It beckons for us to return for another visit. Come and remember. That’s what it will say. And we will. We always will. There’s a reserved space for our small town in our hearts. When we need it, it will always be there, ready to lead us home.

Snacks, Sunscreen, and Shorts- a Lesson on Faith

Today, I’m packing my bags full of snacks, sunscreen, and shorts that I normally wouldn’t be caught dead in. Am I headed on vacation? No. I’m headed to mission camp with the youth from my church!

I began going to church camp at the age of 7, and it was always the highlight of my summer. My parents were always on staff. My dad was a camp pastor, and my mom was a music leader. My sister and I would tag along with our friends from church.  From Sunday to Friday, we sang songs, played games, and ate way too much junk food. We filled our days with Bible study, personal reflection time periods called “Jesus and I” time (not exaggerating), evening Vespers, and worship. It was a week of fun with friends, and it was also a time to think about and/or develop a closer relationship with God.

Both of my parents were a big part of my life, especially when it came to faith. I was spiritual from an early age, and church was a large part of our life. Sunday is Father’s Day, and I feel that it is fitting that I’m leaving to take my first group of youth and chaperones to church camp on this day because my father has been and continues to be a part of my faith journey. My father gave spiritual guidance and support to me growing up. He prayed with me as I made a public profession of faith, and he baptized me in a creek outside of our church. He also provided an example of servant leadership and faith in and out of church. I am now a Youth Pastor and seminary grad student, and I thank him for his spiritual influence. It is my hope that I can pass on the importance of faith to my children one day. Thanks dad, and happy Father’s day!

When I was young in the mountains…

This past week, I was at a wilderness retreat for a seminary class. I found myself tucked away in the mountains, my favorite place on this planet. I spent this time getting to know other seminary students. I chanted prayers, listened to lectures, meditated, and read. I also had periods of silence and fasting from food and modern distractions. I found myself doing something that rarely happens.

I walked in the mountains.

One day, I walked along trails that extended straight up a mountain. I wasn’t sure where I was going because I didn’t bring a map. I didn’t know what my purpose was.  At first, I thought that I was looking for an overlook. In the end, I think I was just competing with myself to see how far I’d go.

Another day when I was fasting, I decided to take an easier trail and sit on a rock in the middle of a stream. As I sat there, I had a realization. I was in nature. I wasn’t walking by trees. I wasn’t glancing out a window at a stream. I wasn’t driving past a mountain. I was IN nature. I was spending time listening to God and admiring God’s creation. I was praying.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I was laughing because I kept remembering my childhood. My mom would take my sister and me out in the mountains of West Virginia regularly on the weekends. As I walked over rotting leaves, I remembered walks in our local park during the fall. As I walked past a tree that had fallen, I remembered scaling large trees and jumping off of them onto a soft bed of grass and moss. As I followed a worn path, I remembered the countless paths that we crossed in the beautiful mountains and hills of my beloved home state.

I will add that as my sister and I walked through the mountains, we weren’t always in a prayerful state. We complained. We got bored. I’m sure we asked how much longer we had to walk. In fact, my mother would sometimes call us the “whiner sisters” because we were so good at our complaints.

Despite the years that have passed, I still have a deep connection to the mountains. As I walked this week, I kept saying, I’m going to give my children this gift.

I HAVE to give my children this gift.

I can thank my mother for a million gifts that she has given me. She is an inspiration to the kind of woman and mother that I want to be.

But today, I will thank her for the gift of the mountains.

This gift isn’t an ability to walk on a trail. It is the ability to have a conversation with God, free from the daily distractions that so often tear me away from my Creator.

Thank you mom.

Seasons of Love

 

Story. We all have one. I’m a broadway geek, and a favorite song of mine is Seasons of Love. If you don’t know the song, you should. (So stop reading this and go look it up on YouTube. Serious face.)

525,600 minutes. 525,000 journeys to plan. 525,600 minutes. How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?

In the song, they cast of Rent remembers a friend that died. How? They don’t recall the person’s salary. They don’t mention the person’s degrees or titles. They don’t even recall the person’s WordPress blog.

How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?

They honor the person’s story through the beauty of every minute that they lived.

In daylights. In sunsets. In midnights. In cups of coffee. In inches. In miles. In laughter. In strife.

My husband and I are leaving today to go to his grandmother’s home on a quiet farm in the country. Unfortunately, it was sold recently, so we are traveling to say our goodbyes. This event has brought up feelings of obvious sadness, but it has also been a time to remember his grandmother’s story. I could recall her accomplishments that I’ve learned from talking to family members or in her interview that my husband and I conducted a few years ago. Those things are important, but what I’d like to remember is the story that is told through the minutes of her life when I knew her.

The sunsets: She was always awake early in the morning, cooking the largest breakfast I had ever seen. She would sit at the table and insist that we try everything. How about another biscuit? You left the table stuffed. If you were there at lunch time, there would be a whole other table of food for to eat.

In inches: She was always aware of our inches. She would compliment me on my latest weight loss. I usually hadn’t lost any weight, but I enjoyed the thought that I at least looked thinner. After assessing our size, she would usually urge us to go eat another piece of cake. She loved to take care of us.

In laughter: What a smile! Over 90 years old. Beautiful. Laughter filled the home whenever we were there. Smiles, stories, jokes. It was a place where all family was always welcome.

Stories are so important. Though we all strive to be the best that we can be, it’s nice to remember that our lives aren’t measured by our accomplishments. Our lives are measured by love.

 

 

frilly socks NEVER go out of style

When I was a child, I always got to pick out a new outfit for Christmas and Easter. Frilly socks, shiny shoes, and a puffy floral frock usually came home with me, tucked away in my plastic JC Penny bag.  I was a girly girl, so the thought of getting to wear something new made that holiday church service even more special.

Now I’m 28, and I no longer shop at JC Penny.  Yet, this week I did go shopping for new Easter shoes to go with my new Easter dress.  This Sunday, I will put on my cobalt blue sun dress.  I will then slip on my sassy Nine West heels, spin around, and walk outside with a pep in my step.

Why dress up? What’s the big deal?

I don’t think that God keeps a point system and rewards me based on my clothing choices for church.  God is love, and God would love me in my sweats if that’s what I had to bring.  I don’t think that a cobalt blue dress will make me think more deeply about the sermon.  I don’t think that my heels will lift me to a higher point of spirituality.  I dress up because, to me, Easter is a celebration.

AND

No matter what the celebration is-birthday, anniversary, or holiday- I don’t celebrate half heartedly.

Christians celebrate Easter because Jesus was victorious over death. New life wasn’t just something that happened a long time ago.  It’s something that I believe that I have been given.  Why wouldn’t I want to celebrate that?!

This is why I will bring my best on Sunday. I will bring my best attitude.  I will bring my best clothes.  I will bring my best mindset.

I will celebrate.

So, if you see me spinning and looking a bit too sassy for my sun dress on Easter, don’t roll your eyes. Instead, bring your best to this day. The world is crazy enough, let’s set time aside to celebrate.