We traveled back to Fredonia. My great aunt passed away so we returned to my family’s town to pay our respects. It is a trip that will stay with me forever.

Her service had good attendance, but there were still many seats empty at the funeral home, for it is a small community, growing smaller as each generation ventures farther from the valley. The majority of those gathered to say farewell to my aunt were the faithful remnant who had remained. Their heads of silver and pearl-toned hair, lovely drawls, and good faces earned by years of honest living set them apart. My aunt lived a quiet life in a quiet community, but her impact, as I would discover at the service, was resounding.

As I listened to the preacher (a man in his 70s who was a member of the youth group she led as a young woman) and lifelong neighbors recount their memories of Aunt Jonell, it struck me that I never really knew her. As I stared down at her delicate, perfectly still face in a casket crowned in pale blue hydrangea, vibrant orchids and roses I felt I was meeting her for the first time.

My memories of my great aunt are sadly few. She was married to my grandmother’s “baby brother,” as she liked to call him. Aunt Jonell was as tiny and cheery as my great uncle was large and gruff. My recollections of her
primarily consist of impressions: a sing-song, southern-accented voice, a
wardrobe of floral skirt suits paired with white high heels, meticulously coiffed dark hair, and the aura of goodness. Aunt Jonell exuded kindness as a flower emanates the scent of spring.

Although I know I had many more interactions with her than this, the only specific exchange I recall was when I noticed her silver Noah’s ark charm bracelet. She jingled it and said “My boyfriend gave me that.” I remember glancing nervously at barrel-like Uncle Sam to see what his reaction would be to such a confession. After his chuckling response I got the joke. I found it fascinating she could refer to her husband, a bearded giant, frankly scary man, as her “boyfriend” (I felt the same way about my grandmother calling him “baby brother”).   In later years I would come to find him tenderhearted and inclined to scoop me up for giant hugs. It is strange how growing older changes a child’s perspective on adults, and how aging adults respond differently to children.

During her service I heard stories of a woman who was beloved by her caretakers, a faithful friend, and one who had lead many (some represented in the room) to meet the Lord. Her life was intentional.

The service was followed by a long drive on country roads that cut stripes across the acres of farmlands to a graveyard on top of a hill. Under a tent swaying in the spring wind on a bright, cold day we laid her to rest beside my great uncle. They lay beneath a gnarled tree that has stood watch for centuries over our people’s departures.

Before we returned to the city we took the afternoon to slowly drive through the tiny town that used to be filled with my family. My mom showed us a line of houses where aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and friends once lived together as neighbors. I imagined the characters from the stories my grandmother told me crossing back and forth over yards (now mostly overgrown) for visits, holidays, to borrow books and eat dinner. Their presence was still felt despite the years of absence.

We passed my grandmother’s childhood house and the current resident graciously invited us to come inside. Being able to see the home that was the backdrop to so many tales was a gift upon which I cannot place a price. My mother showed me the phone nook where she would sit to call her cousin. She showed me the shed where my great-grandfather, Bull, would take refuge to smoke and play piano. As my daughter slept in her car seat through our wanderings into the past a haunting homesickness took over. With each generation this place moves more into the realm of memory. The direct links broken and a place which my mom has first person memories only resides in my mind as a tour of another family’s home. I wished for a way to reclaim the place– to find a way back to where we began.

The idea was silly. Anyone who knows me would find it laughable– me longing to live in a small farming town! Like my grandmother, I am a city girl.

My grandmother longed for a bigger life in the city. Her choice to leave led to marriage and the birth of my mother in Lexington several hours away from Fredonia. I was born in a different country entirely. The ripples spread further.

As I pondered my life, all the places I have been and all the plans I have yet to
fulfill, it struck me that my aunt has remained in the same place her entire life. While I have zipped around the map she was quietly abiding. Those people who came to pay their respects have been remaining together. It made me wonder if the bigger life is the better one after all.   In our quest for an adventure we have lost a part of ourselves. I believe it was part of God’s plan for us to move on, but the departure was not without a price.

Yesterday was Easter. We continued the legacy my grandparents set when they left their country towns and we live in a city away from all our family. The days of crossing a yard to a grandparent or sibling’s home are not mine. Instead we gathered at our best friends’ home for a resurrection celebration. Our party consisted of others who were transplants. My daughter had her first egg hunt in our friends’ yard as surrogate aunts and uncles delighted in guiding her on the quest of filling the basket. We took video and sent it to our parents. That is the world we live in; one made smaller not with proximity, but technology. Living among family looks a little different.

Though she did not know it Aunt Jonell left me with a challenge: to cultivate the  spirit of abiding. To learn contentment in the place God has planted me today. To trust His ability to replant if needed instead of trying to uproot myself. To let the time required pass for my roots to extend deep into the soil I have been placed in. To invest more fully in the people I am blessed to call friends for they have become family in the city away from home. To make new memories and retell old stories keeping those who passed on in our presence.

We cannot go back, but we can learn how to remain.