Oh, how I love a good story. I love listening to them, reading them, and every now and then, telling a few myself.
I began blogging 14 years ago, and for much of that time I wrote simply for the joy of it. I didn’t know the ins and outs of making a blog grow, monetize, or rank on search engines—I wrote for people, not algorithms.
My posts were stories of real life, told in real time—stories that mattered to friends and family, whether or not Google took notice.
This particular story came to mind as I prepare to board a plane and return to the country roads of my small Montana hometown. I’m eager to embrace my family again.
Much has changed since I first wrote about these memories, but my love for family remains constant.
And if you’re new here: my sweet momma went to be with Jesus on New Year’s Eve five years ago.
***
Sitting in my office with birds singing outside the window, I’m struck by a gentle culture shock. Just yesterday I was drifting down a Montana road with my sister; today I’m home on my island in British Columbia. Modern travel compresses distance, but it doesn’t erase the ache of leaving—or the joy of returning.
For the last ten days I traveled familiar routes and followed memories: I turned into the long gravel driveway where I grew up, walked the rooms that shaped my childhood, and let the landscape—open sky, distant mountains, wide fields—remind me of simpler seasons.
I stood in the yard of my childhood home, now lovingly cared for by family, and watched cows grazing in the field where so many afternoons were spent. I soaked in sunsets that painted the sky every evening, each one a quiet benediction.
I even walked the halls of my old high school and visited the cemetery for the first time since my father’s funeral twenty years ago. Those steps felt heavy and necessary—part of honoring the past while moving forward.
I gathered with brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews—small and growing families filling the rooms with noise and delight. The house echoed with children’s voices and the familiar rhythm of family life. It was home in the fullest sense: the house where we learned to love one another, where meals and stories stitched us together.
Most of all, I went to see my mom. God granted me the blessing I hoped for: I kissed her cheek and told her I love her. We celebrated her eighty-first birthday with hours of singing around the piano—songs that threaded our family history into a living moment.
The days were a whirlwind—traveling, shopping, planning, visiting, meeting, eating, hugging, reading, and laughing. The laughter was the kind that swells until you can barely breathe; it’s a gift, especially after seasons of loss.
Returning to my island home felt warm and familiar. My husband welcomed me with open arms, and that quiet reunion reminded me how home is both a place and a person. Hellos, goodbyes, and the steady return to home—these are the rhythms that shape a life.
My heart holds a tender sadness at the distance that separates me from so many loved ones, but that feeling sits beside deep gratitude. I’m grateful for siblings who have walked beside me through grief and joy, who have taught me that, even amid tears, faith brings hope, blessing, and the possibility of joy.
One quiet wish for the trip was to sing my mother’s lullaby—the melody she sang to us when we were children. I didn’t say the wish out loud, but it came true. All five of us gathered and sang that lullaby to her together. Though dementia had largely stilled her voice, for a moment she tapped her finger in perfect rhythm on the wheelchair arm as we finished the song. It was a small, precious sign that those old songs and memories still live in her.
Memories like that stay with me. They remind me of the value of taking the time to go home, to make room for the people who shaped us, and to treasure the ordinary moments that become extraordinary over time.
PS. The picture of my childhood home shows the house my brother and sister-in-law live in now. It’s over a century old and has been restored with care—filled with the same warmth that raised our family.