Walnut Grove…

There’s a magical place that doesn’t have visible boundaries and one can only go there by way of a long winding narrow country road with hills that mimic a smooth roller coaster ride.

It’s a place that shifts my soul turn after turn, hill after hill…as my body anticipates each wind of the road and naturally repositions itself to center, subconsciously knowing it’s on the the journey back to where I come from.

Walnut Grove, Tennessee- home to generations of my father’s family, the place where he grew up and the first place I called home. For whatever reason, I was raised with my mother’s maiden name, but in Walnut Grove, there’s no doubt I’m a Lambert.

My Papaw still lives there- with the most wondrous backyard that stretches as far as one can see across pastures of cows, trees and picturesque ponds. Lightening bugs, bright stars, stillness of quiet…storybook reality.

For miles, his neighbors are mostly all family or have generational connections that are bound by countless handshakes and promises.

Growing up, visits to Papaw usually included tractor rides, walking through hog pens, home-cooked meals and fully understanding where breakfast came from. There was an ever-present and undeniable feeling of belonging that would fill one’s own memory bucket to its rim; however, some of my most favorite memories are taking my little girl to the magical hills and watching her bottle feed calves with her great-grandfather. The gentleness. The love.

And the explanation that the female cows are actually just sister wives.

Keep it simple.

Not far up the road from my Papaw’s house is sacred ground where many of my relatives have been laid to rest generation after generation, including my Dad. This resting place is the most beautiful space to lay one down forever. Nestled next to a tiny little white country church, tucked neatly between small rolling hills and named after nearby Holland Creek, each person is honored with the most beautiful flower arrangements at all times. It is a guarantee that the graves are decorated impeccably day after day, year after year. My grandmother lies beside my Dad and it fills me to know they are honored so wonderfully.

Nearby is where one of my two memories of my Dad took place. We were in the driveway of the brick family farmhouse and the image that is showcased in my memories of the two of us is a simple one…we were coloring a picture of a Navy sailor in a coloring book. I was sitting in the backend of a pickup truck and he was standing alongside me.

Years later, long after my Dad was gone, the old family farmhouse burned down. I don’t remember the details since by that time I was living my teenage years as a beach girl down in Florida, but I remember the sadness I felt to know it was gone.

Fast forward to now, my uncle recently gifted me the old home’s land to call mine until our daughter calls it hers. I’m not sure what we will ever do with that small slice of God’s country, but it brings me immense gratitude and gratefulness to know that single memory is forever encapsulated in land that is ours.

After living so many lives in so many places for so many years, there’s something incredible about being able to take country roads to a place that seems frozen in time and infinitely home.

Walnut Grove, Tennessee- you’ll always be home sweet home to me.