About four hundred years ago, a family left Wales for a newly founded Penn’s Colony. With a few older boys in tow, and one who made his appearance when crossing the Atlantic (aptly named Seaborn), they made the voyage successfully. Settling into the colony, the family became established in their community. Time passed, generations branched out and moved southwest into Kentucky. Deep into timbered hills, where shadows rest late in the morning and pull along evening’s approach early, families were established. Gardens were planted, homes were built and a few lone settlers became communities.
On a recent trip I was reminded of the gift of roots. It took courage to leave a home in Wales and travel across an ocean; to later say goodbye to the established colony and settle the frontier of the Appalachian hills. Generations continued, learning to lean on each other as they formed their own families, taking root and becoming communities.
I watched and listened as family surrounded me last week. Each unique in their gifts, each very special. This beautiful hilled place will be forever my family home, a holder of stories and songs that rise in the memory like the morning mist. Each generation has the opportunity to be a builder for the next, to give them another strong layer upon which to place their own structure. I also am part of the branching out, and in so doing found a new home.