I keep thinking that I don’t have roots. My brain isn’t wired for permanence. My childhood is marked with the constant coming and going of people and places. I am always missing something or someone. Roots are dangerous because when they get pulled up it hurts.
So imagine my surprise when in conversation with another mama beside the soccer field one night I did the math and realized that I have lived in the same area for 18 years and in the same town for 13. That should make for some roots right?
The rest of my family has settled nicely into a northern city. They get to have dinners together and go shopping and take impromptu walks and generally live daily life together in a way that makes me just a tad jealous. And yet…I find to my surprise that I love these mountains that surround us. I love our seasons, none too long or intense, all just long enough to savor. I love the consistency of attending the same church and being part of its growing and reaching, watching couples fall in love and marry their babies grow and become teenagers.
And recently, as my boys have grown and we have spent countless hours beside ball fields, I have come to love being part of this community. Knowing people. Knowing needs. Caring about its future.
This week we attended our 15th annual Harvest Party and are wrapping up our 4th soccer season. On Halloween night I was standing in golden autumn light in front of the church I have attended for 16 years. The front field was full of children running from game to game in candy-crazed excitement. Adults were manning booths, chatting with friends, loving on children from the neighborhood. I saw friends I have known for years and friends I have known for weeks. I was so proud of my church family for organizing this community event.
I guess it is time to admit that, much to my great surprise, I have in fact put down roots. And maybe it feels good to feel them burrowing deep.