Vacation Words

the farm

Vacationing is hard for me to do.  Not striving to be productive is difficult.  Work follows me.  And when I’m actually not supposed to work, the silent nudging of my mental to-do list swells to something well resembling a panic attack.  I am the product of two entrepreneurs.  The plague of work being on my phone, on my computer has already consumed and created a slight, reoccurring twitch in my right eye at seventeen.

So, I’m thankful.  That I can be here, in a place that hasn’t changed since I was born.  I’m in a town where a newcomer wouldn’t understand my love for a place that has had the same jacuzzi on the side of the road for sale since I was four; and where Paddy’s Par Range (where, yes, I have actually played at) is bordering a grocery store parking lot.

I ate at Buccilli’s Pizza tonight, where nothing has changed besides its employed young adults.  The buffet (which has always been the reason for going there) has never changed. 2 soups, salad bar (with the same toppings), pizza, cheese sticks, and chocolate pudding (always the fave).  The only change I know of was about 6 years ago when they added Oreo pudding and cinnamon bread sticks. That was a little crazy for them.  To recover from the madness, there hasn’t been a variation since.

It was in the small, one room restaurant that I realized how blessed I am to be home.  To have a home, especially having lived all over the world, who has known me in all stages of my life – not just the one I’m wrapped up in now.  She knew me before I skipped high school to go to college, before I was a worship leader, before I had two businesses.  I can be me here.  I can be the same me I was at 2, or 4, or 12, or whatever I want!  And that’s freeing.  So freeing that I can forget about the writing I “need” to do or the pictures I “need” to edit or the emails I “need” to send.  Clare, Michigan has been sweet to me; she deserves some sweet attention back.

I’ll leave with you with one of the first essays I wrote for DSC, about my home, written in 2009.  Whether it’s read or not, I need to wipe the dust off of it and bring it out – for no reason other than my sanity and for the sake of being free.

I could never see much while sitting in the back seat of that small car at night.  Only the outline of seasonal Christmas lights shaping the town's houses was visible.  Therefore, the feel of the dirt road passing beneath the vehicle was only enhanced.  The sound of turning tires kicking up stones would begin to sooth me to sleep as I would rest my head on the soft seat of the car.  Just as my heavy eyelids would reluctantly close, my body would be jolted by the transition of one dirt road to another.  That's when I knew, as Grandpa would turn onto Crawford Road, that we were almost there.  I eagerly searched out my window, my eyes straining to see through the darkness, behind the festive lights, for the house I had been to a hundred times before.  Multiple times I found myself in a wake of delight by believing that I had spotted the correct house through the black canopy.  Upon further inspection I would realize that I had, unfortunately, misinterpreted the features.  I wasn't disappointed, however.  I had played that game many times, and I knew we are approaching our destination.

            When Grandpa would begin to withdrawn his foot from the accelerator, I would finally see the correct house come into view.  The traditional Christmas lights were illuminating the front porch, reflecting red and green hues off the white snow.  The scene was like a picture on a postcard.  Snow had recently ceased to fall, laying in mounds, just begging to be stomped in vigorously.  The seasonal decorations were perfect to the degree of every properly placed pine needle in the door's wreath.  Faithfully, the prodigious, crimson barn stood statuesque in the background, as it has always been for decades before my birth.  The uncontainable joy from the realization that we had indeed arrived would erupt.  We had arrived at my grandparent's house, the Farm.

            Growing up, my parents and I lived in many places.  I was born in the Netherlands, and moved to Malaysia, New York, and California.  However, my grandparents' house in Clare, Michigan – affectionately titled the Farm – was always a consistent home in my life.  No matter where I had lived in the past, I could always walk into the beloved house and know it would be a familiar dwelling.  The living room would always greet me with its inviting cream couch, spacious windows revealing the descending, dancing snow, and fireplace, where warmth has caressed me for years.  I held to knowledge every creak the the hard wood floor hallway could make, and every way the door hinges would groan.  Loyally, there would always be a plate of cookies placed neatly on the rose colored counters, forbidden to be consumed until morning.

            After much urging on my mother's part, I would retreat to the bedroom, not only to demolish the temptation to steal a sugary snack, but because I held a sense of possession for that room since the beginning of my childhood, and I had missed it exceedingly.  A yellow, floral comforter would still cloth the bed.  Baskets of old toys would continue to patiently wait for a child to play with.  The wind chime I made years ago at Vacation Bible School could still be found hung on the bed's headboard.  The room would always be remarkably identical to how I had left it last.

            To this day, the Farm is and always will be a haven.  It will forever be there for me to run down the path through the bean fields, sled down the hills blanketed in snow, and frolic through the trees.  It's a place where I can always come to live fully, eat abundantly, sleep peacefully, and be surrounded by family.  I am not certain where my path will take me in the future.  I don't know where I'll live or travel to, and I don't know what I will become.  I do know, however, that no matter where I go or do, the Farm will always be there, welcoming me with Christmas lights, snow, and a home evermore.