Back To My Roots

Not long ago, an old, large tree fell over in the wind. The owner of the property said that because of the drought the roots had withered. They were no longer able to withstand the wind and hold the tree upright. I’m not a botanist; I don’t know if the property owner was correct in his explanation for the cause of the tree falling down.

      I am going back to my roots for a short visit. I am going to visit the town where I was born, where both my parents were born, where my grandfather lived all his married life, and where my great-grandfather spent the last years of his life. They are all buried on the same cemetery lot in that town’s cemetery.
       I am leaving Mississippi Delta land to go up into the mountains. My car will climb the long ascent to the top of one mountain, then go downhill until it begins the climb up the elevation of the next mountain. As I am enfolded in the bosom of those towering forested land masses, I imagine that they are my grandmother saying, “Why, honey, I sure have missed you. Can you stay for a while? Come on in and sit down. I’ll fix you some coffee and ham and eggs.”
      I’ll be attending the convention of the historical society of a railroad that no longer exists. While it was in operation, my great-grandfather, my grandfather, two of his brothers, and two of his sons (one of them was my father) worked for that railroad. We will ride on an excursion train over rails that were originally laid by some of them.
      While I am there I will also attend worship in a church that was my second pastorate.
      I’ve been away for a year since my last visit, transplanted in the flatlands and sun-baked soil of the Mississippi Delta. I hope that my roots will be watered and nourished enough by this short visit to hold me upright against the winds of life for another year.