Roots. Once a year we return to the home of our parents, our grandparents and our great grandparents. We drive the 100 acres of land and hear the landmarks “see that rotting tree”, “see that water tank”, “see that fence row”. We hear the stories. We walk the grave yard and again hear the history of our family. My great, great grandmother Martha Wheeler, born in 1844 is the second oldest in the graveyard. There is one other born in 1840. Born into slavery. It’s really not that long ago. We are reminded of the struggle from there to now. Reminded not to take this hard won freedom for granted. And not to give it back. We renew friendships. The Black church experience is something to behold. Note the young usher boys, still in their white. The church Saint who tells me when I hug her “baby don’t knock my hat!” And the “zoot suit” in the background. This is my history. I’m a country girl. These are my stories. My roots. ❤️
Happy Sunday Saints!
