The four of us piled into the car, two adults in the front with a camera between us. Two kids in the back, with a bad attitude sitting between them. We drove 2.9 miles to a new-to-us botanical garden and pulled into its gravel lot with a satisfying crunch. I drive by the entrance to the garden regularly, but I’ve never turned into the parking lot, always telling myself, I’ll get to it later. Eight years of driving by, wondering what lay beyond the gravel drive and the high fence, and telling myself “someday“– I finally turned in.
Just beyond the gate, lay thirty-three acres of lush, natural gardens curated on the remnants of an ancient glacial rock formation. It held all the elements I love: wooden bridges, footpaths climbing through woods, wild things growing in tufts of color, and a lake, still as a mirror, to anchor it in the center. With the exception of birdsong, it cupped the air in silence. For eight years, I drove right by, never knowing a open-air house of worship sat right around the corner.
Over the years, I’ve complained a lot about living in New Jersey. When we first moved here, the decision was entirely against my will, and I set my heart against living and loving it here. It became my own time of wandering in the wilderness, accompanied by enough murmuring and complaining to rival the Jews in Exodus. I, too, have stood at the base of a familiar mountain and wondered why I was given another trip around it. Examining my heart, I now see that complaining only gets you another forty years of circling.
Over the years, I became so pre-occupied with what New Jersey was not, I refused to embrace it for what it is. While it isn’t the cultural center of London, or the stunning natural landscape of Zurich, it possesses its own quirky brand of beauty. It isn’t refined or cultured or classically beautiful. But, New Jersey is a four-season wonderland of everything wild and green, grasping and climbing over itself as it grows to greet the ocean.
It is filled with farms and great oaks and maple trees that turn the color of sunshine in autumn. It’s where many of my best memories came to life: where I stood on a beach and said yes to the boy with the ring, where I gave birth to my last baby, where I ran loop upon loop in the neighborhood training for my first marathon, where I gathered stories to scribble on pages, where I flew into and out of exciting travel destinations from an airstrip in Newark.
Every week on the drive to church, I pass through a natural reserve located on ancient Indian grounds. As I emerge from a thicket of trees, I crest the top of a hill and catch a glimpse of the New York City skyline, glittering like a jewel in the distance. New York City. Sometimes I grow giddy knowing that on the other side of the Hudson River lies a world of art, culture, architecture, and the world’s most fascinating, diverse group of people.
Living a stone’s throw from the city is a gift, but I spend most days at home in the suburbs. It’s taken me years to realize that within my own backyard I have it all. The serenade of birdsong each morning, the knockout roses climbing in a flush of color along the fence, the friends sipping drinks while barbecue smoke floats past their face, the kids laughing, competing in made-up games.
New Jersey is the quiet, unsung hero in the story of my life.
It’s the place where my kids are becoming, and I am becoming too. Where my deepest and dearest relationships formed their roots. Where my church waters the soil and saturates the state with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Where I gather stories and write my way into loving this lush, overgrown landscape bursting with life.
Rather than complain and pray for deliverance, I want to grow more deeply rooted in the place God has planted my family. As I stood in the hidden garden a few miles from my home in the Garden State, I whispered to myself, “I love living here.” After I said it, I sucked in my breath quickly, and looked around to see if anyone else heard me. I couldn’t believe those words tumbled from my own lips, but they bubbled up out of the secret place I have yet to explore–the corner of my heart that knows New Jersey and I belong together.
My home was here all along.
….
Do you feel a sense of belonging where you live? What would it take for you to feel as if you belong? What does rootedness look like to you?
**This is a re-post from the archives. Sometimes I need to remind myself of what I already know to be true.
