We took a family outing to my Grandma's house two weeks ago. We had a nice time visiting with Grandma and helping her with some household stuff. David mowed the lawn and the girls helped shine things up inside. And then we played. I let Grandma entertain me while the kids rode ATVs with Dad and swam in the creek. Nicole, as usual, had her nose in a book. I had to take a photo of her reading on the swing-set, because you could have found me in the exact spot 25 or so years ago. And probably my mother before that, and my grandmother, would have read there preswing. It's the same ground my family has ranched for over 100 years.
I feel something deep and reverenced when I think of that. There's something intensely personal about standing on a piece of ground marked with greatness. Isn't that part of the reason people travel to Jerusalem or Mecca or Cumorah? To feel the atmosphere of the place someone great once walked? To feel as if you're seeing the same skyline, breathing the same air, touching the same soil? For me, being at Grandma's house is the tangible reality of the family history making me me.
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