Receive-Reflect-Respond: Going Home

Judy and I just completed a 3,200 miles road trip to the places of my roots, and where Judy was born too, though she doesn’t like to admit it. While the largest wildfire in New Mexico’s history was raging, and drought persisted, we headed toward Minnesota in early June.

Driving from the West of the United States through the Texas panhandle and the great plains of Oklahoma, Kansas, and Iowa, we viewed the progression from drought and the arid lands of the Southwest to the increasingly verdant and lush green landscapes of the Midwest. In Minnesota and Wisconsin, the roads are often lined with trees, like walls of green as fields of grass, row crops, and wooded meadows are displayed around us. I am always amazed at the transformation from desert and mountains to the humid foliage of the Midwest in summer; even Oklahoma starts to green up about halfway through, though dry land farming seems to be suffering this summer in Western Kansas and Nebraska.

The large cities continue to extend their urban sprawl as houses and commercial developments are built on rich farmland, sealing up that soil forever. We drove many miles of blue highways going and returning, passing through small towns with scattered evidence of a better life in the past; shuttered motels and stores, along with Trump signs and flags, pointing to the divide between urban and rural America that we have read about.

In Iowa you don’t see livestock on the pastures anymore. Pigs, chickens, and cattle are grown under huge, enclosed buildings in animal factories, while in states further West thousands of beef cattle are confined in large feedlots under the blazing sun. It was 107 degrees the day we drove through Kansas coming home. On our return trip we fought high winds all the way from Minnesota to New Mexico, which, some say, is an indicator of global warming.

A trip home always prompts many memories. This is especially true when I visit the place where I was born and grew up, a small farm near Kenyon, Minnesota. I was born on that farm in 1938; in the same house my grandmother, Ellen Solberg, was born in 1880. Judy and I returned to live there for a dozen years after we came back to the States from Ecuador. We later we moved to Montana to give Judy a chance to live in the State of her youth for about the same length of time. Equity, I guess. We built a new house, now almost 30 years ago, and planted trees that now extend 60 feet up toward the sky. A veritable jungle has overtaken the old farmhouse, and the people who bought our acres and the adjacent farm are in a constant battle to keep ahead of mother nature, mowing the grass and undergrowth that continually tries to take back the land. So far, mowers on small tractors are winning the fight, though in the “woods” where I played, and we grazed the cows in the summer, trees and brush have completely taken over.

Nostalgia invades our minds as we reminisce about the good life we had there, with the next sentence being “well, we just couldn’t keep up with it, could we?” I think about the place as well as the people who lived there when I grew up, and we remember the neighbors and our connection to Holden Lutheran Church and the rural life we enjoyed during the years of our return. A quote from one of the audio books we listened to on the road caught my attention; home is not just a place - it is the people we choose to love.

We visited some of those we love; spent quality time with my siblings and stayed with Judy’s sister in Minneapolis. At an Aaker cousin’s reunion, we joked about how we all now look so old, sharing stories about our most recent health issues as well as memories of our grandparents and parents. With sadness we found that one cousin has Alzheimer’s. And though we are astounded at how quickly life has sped by, there was much joy in spending time with four generations of our progeny: daughter Lani, granddaughter Leslie, and the “cutest kids in the world” great granddaughters, Zalina and Lyonna.

We made a visit to our friend and former pastor, Mike, who is dying of cancer, and is determined to live well in his remaining time in the assurance of his faith and die knowing he was a faithful servant. We stayed a night with Ken, a house mate at Luther college decades ago. Now 90 years old, he has just gone through the tribulation of losing his wife, Deanna, who succumbed to the awful disease ALS. Those conversations were 80% listening. As it should be.

Some day we will return home again, to where many loved ones lie in the earth in Holden’s cemetery.