Her Roots Go Deep

I have never seen this picture before. I do not remember having it taken, but it is me with a book in my lap giving the person behind the camera ‘the look’. I do that look a lot, pursing my lips, wrinkled forehead, eyebrows knit. Why haven’t I seen this picture before? Wait a second, I have never worn a shirt like that in my life… I suddenly realize it is a picture of my grandmother when she was a young woman. My jaw drops at the extraordinary resemblance.

Her roots go deep.

A real explorer Pat was brave, and adventurous. Traveling the globe, she shared meals with people all over Asia, Africa, Eastern Europe, Western Europe, India, South America, Central America, North America. Her goal was all corners of the world, every tribe, every nation, every tongue. The places she journeyed may have been exotic and distant, but the people she met always needed the same thing; real, genuine, human connection. She freely poured out generous helpings of love upon them. Her hugs you could disappear into. She had a good eye, an eye that continuously filled her body full of light.

Her roots go deep.

My grandmother was always shooing me outside, out into the woods or down to the lake. She would join me in discovering the new, the weird and the unfamiliar. What secrets would be revealed beneath the trees that were there for us in that moment alone. My grandmother nurtured my roots when I was just beginning to dig my toes into the mossy earth. A keen eye that saw truth and a notorious heart that spilled wisdom. She too was brimming with curiosity and courageously trying new things. Her favorite phrase to me when we started traveling together was, “It’s not good, it’s not bad, it’s just different.” She said this always matter of fact and I took it as such.

Her roots go deep.

Often in the kitchen, Pat was concocting soups that could never be reproduced—couldn’t be done even if we tried! And we did try. She would stand at the counter delightedly sinking into dough up to her elbows or attempting the latest Chinese recipe she had stumbled upon. Her beauty shone through when she was just being herself. Down at the lake her sun kissed glow would beam out over the water. Barefoot and wild wind swept hair. She would sing, and when she sang it was to the heavens so the whole kingdom could hear her praise.

Her roots go deep.

She followed a profoundly strong-willed rhythm in life. Like an oak she stood thick, solid, her steadfast branches stretching out for all of us to climb on or find shelter beneath. Never to bend, to sway, or to snap. She dared me to dream and to see those dreams through. My grandmother demonstrated grace through the cycles and seasons of being a woman. With time and age she blossomed more.

Her roots go deep.

I go sit down at one of the tables with my family. The gymnasium is full of people all laughing, smiling, remembering, and eating ice cream. She wanted an ice cream social for her funeral, a celebration of life. I had never seen so many people smiling and crying at the same time. I believe there is an old wisdom there that goes back further than creation. I laugh, I smile, I remember and I eat ice cream with them.