In May, my husband and I made the decision that we needed to visit my paternal grandparents on their farm in Kansas. There were rumblings since Christmas of them moving out of their house on the farm and into a sort of retirement-independent living community in town. During a discussion with my father after his own visit to see them, I felt a tug on my heart. My father said they were going through old boxes, photographs, and memorabilia, sorting what they wanted to keep and give away. Along with those items were a lot of memories, stories I've never heard and my grandparents may have never told until that point. If they were going to leave the farm, I needed to visit one more time and pay homage to the memories I had made in the house and with my grandparents, to the stories I will tell my children, and to the place in my heart that the farm has a hold on.
In Brent and I's conversation, I was telling him about what my father had said, how they were sorting through their lives and making an effort to both literally a figuratively move on. I recounted how I had spent, on two separate occasions, a week at their farm sorting through their old photographs and making each my grandmother and grandfather their own heritage scrapbook, filled with their ancestors' pictures, stories, and in the process, learning more about who I am. I told Brent about how my grandparents are people I deeply respect and love, and how my grandfather was born on the property he still lives on, almost 90 years later (that, in and of itself, is amazing!) Now Brent had only met them and visited the farm once, a visit that lasted possibly only 24 hours. But what was happening during my telling him these things was that I was realizing why it was so important that I go visit: my grandparents were the most consistent and steady family I had growing up.
Of course they aren't my only family growing up. I have been blessed with a large, loving, hilarious, and mostly uncomplicated family on both my mother and father's side. But for some reason, my paternal grandparents had a special place in my life. Maybe it's because there's a part of me that wishes I was raised by them, living a simple country lifestyle, surrounded by the beauty of a Kansas agricultural landscape. Maybe it's because, year after year, we would visit and they would still be there, still their same old selves, still believing that the Lord is good, still married, still providing the best poppyseed bread and mashed potatoes you could find anywhere. Their house changed very little over the years: they painted the wood paneling one year, got new drapes another. But I know their farmhouse like the back of my hand, and am amazed in it's simple, yet sturdy construction and use.
Their farm is one of the safest places in the world for me.
So when we actually visited in early August, we did the usual small-town Western Kansas activities: walked around the dirt roads, attended the county fair complete with funnel cakes, demolition derby, and pork burgers, as well as simply just sitting around and visiting. That's another thing I love about their farm - besides being in the quiet, peaceful country, there really isn't much to do. You just hang out. And I loved it! During our visit, Brent and I, as well as my father and stepmom, observed the changes going on, had discussions, and wondered at the best course of action. I knew the purpose of my visit, though: to grieve and rejoice. To find closure in a part of my life I am so grateful for.
On the last morning we were there, Brent and I went on a walk around the property, stumbling through overgrown grass, sliding along the gravel, and marveling at the freshly-cut wheat fields nearby with the perfect and clean blue sky as a backdrop. We even snuck a few shots in the cornfield. Towards the end, we sat on the concrete slab next to a large steel building that housed expensive farming equipment and decades of tools and farming supplies, shaded from the morning sun. I don't remember what we said, but I just started crying. The kind of crying that begins as a tight knot in your chest, comes out in unattractive gasps and sniffles, and generally makes me self-conscious that this might be one of those moments where Brent wonders who this lady is and what is happening to her.
I was so grateful to God for allowing me to have this place, for having these grandparents. I was mourning their departure and the change in their living situation, but most importantly, I was learning how to let go. I was learning how to appreciate their presence in my life, yet as I sat there depositing snot onto Brent's shirt, I was also learning how to cling to a new presence: my husband. I was learning how even though I had a physical picture of steadfast love in my life through my grandparents, the Lord was standing behind them with even more steadfastness and faithfulness. I was learning to step forward and into a new life.
The Lord has never abandoned me. He has always been looking out for me, meeting my needs, and providing in ways that I can only realize later. I'm so thankful for the influence my grandparents had on me and can only hope I can love like they have, consistently and faithfully, powered by a God who never sleeps or slumbers. A God who sees all and knows my heart. A God who is very, very real.
