(Originally published in the Grant County News Oct 13th, 2016)
Sherman Mt Zion Road. That’s where the Pennington’s live. All of them. Well, we used to.
My father, Donald Pennington, has 6 brothers and sisters, and I remember a time in my life when every single one of them and their families lived on our road.
We lived in the white brick house on the curve from the time I was born till the time I graduated high school and moved to Cincinnati. My parents sold the white brick house that Fall of 2003. They moved exactly one quarter mile down the road to the old red brick farmhouse that was my Father’s childhood home.
My mom started a greenhouse and then partnering with two other siblings, they started Country Pumpkins, a pumpkin patch and fall festival on the old farm. Practically the whole family is involved. After a few years, my mom was ready to retire, and wanted to be closer to her own aging mother in Somerset. So they sold the old farmhouse and moved south and Country Pumpkins relocated to my aunt and uncle’s dairy farm down the road.
Other siblings have moved away now as well, and us kids have moved north to Cincinnati or south to Georgetown or Lexington and have families of our own. But there was a time when we all lived in the same place, on Sherman Mt Zion Road, in Dry Ridge, Kentucky.
I remember running through backyards to play baseball with my cousins and skipping rocks in the creek behind Mamaw Lucy’s, we spent Summers splashing in the pool at my house, we would fish in the ponds down on the ridge, and climb trees and barn lofts anywhere we found them. There were a lot of us – so you always had someone to play with. We worked on the farm when the tobacco harvest came, or early in the season when it was time to plant. We worked together, we played together, we all went to church together, we ate together. The older I get, the more I realize how unique and special a childhood I had in that small town, on that country road.
In high school, all I could think about was getting out of that town and into the big city.
I used to go back and visit a lot to see my parents. But since they moved to Cumberland four years ago, our visits have become fewer and fewer, till they are almost none.
Just this past weekend, we drove south those 60 miles on I75 and pulled onto that road. We were headed for an Autumn excursion at Country Pumpkins. (Mainly, I was just looking for new, seasonally-appropriate profile pictures.) But as we drove down that road, I found myself pointing things out to my husband, things I’m sure I’ve told him about a hundred other times. Every turn held a myriad of old memories.
As the sun started to set, I stood next to that old white barn on my parent’s farm and looked over the valley of wildflowers to the next ridge freshly trimmed and bailed. I could see more ridges in the distance with various crops on them and the whole scene was awe-inspiring.
I had forgotten the beauty of this place, or maybe I couldn’t even see it before, because it was so familiar. But now, it was like I was seeing it for the first time and it was breathtaking.
I thought to myself, how could you look upon landscapes like this and ever doubt there is a Creator?
I didn’t realize how much I missed the peace and the calm until I was standing there soaking it all in again.
It’s amazing how different a world exists just an hour away. A place where my life is hurried and scheduled and jam-packed with work and commitments. And here, everything right down to the wildflowers are settled and relaxed, with a peaceful assurance that everything is just as it should be.
The wildflowers essentially rival the hundreds of dollars-worth of perfectly manicured landscaping I pay for at my house in the suburbs. They, like I, are trying so hard to achieve what these field weeds just are. Living comfortably in their purpose. Existing to please those around them and most importantly, their Creator.
No striving, or straining, or stressing. Just being.
I am learning the incorporate rhythms of rest into my hectic life right now. In the midst of working full time, while launching a blog, a book, a public speaking career and a ministry all in a year’s time, rest is not a luxury I feel like I have time for.
Home is always the best place to rest. When my parents moved away, I told my husband I felt like I no longer had a place to “go home” to. But this weekend I realized home was never a house, it’s these fields and these hills and this family on this road, this place is still home.
I don’t know if I will ever live on Sherman Mt Zion Road again myself, but it sure makes for a refreshing place to visit and rest and feel at home. And I feel like we will be doing that a lot more often.
