Webster’s dictionary defines “Pilgrimage” as: a journey of a pilgrim; especially: one to a shrine or a sacred place.

As I journeyed back to the place of my birth, I felt as if I was visiting a sacred place. Time is such an odd bedfellow. It tramples memories and pasts at break-neck pace, yet the present seems to confound the amount of time that has truly passed. As I stood on soil that hypothetically could have been ground my 19 and 21 year-old parents could have trod … I felt a sacred connection to them. Past and present collided.

From my Dad’s memories, I calculated what I believe to be the house he and my Mom lived in for the first year of my life. I imagined them laughing together. In my mind’s eye, I saw my pregnant Mom walking down to the nearby pastry shop. I had visions of my Dad driving their tiny Fiat toward Vicenza, the Army base 2 hours away from their home and my birthplace. I tried to envision life 43 years ago. It was sweet … and sacred.

There is a certain truth about getting older. There is a deeper sense of who you are … and where you come from. Having never seen where I came from, it was a missing piece that I wanted to put a picture to …create a memory of … to wrap my head around. Now, I’ve done that.

I am left now with quite reflection as I pictured and empathized with my young Mom. I could physically see places she would have seen. I got to experience the vibrant hospitality of the locals. I got to drink in the culture of that quiet and charming place.

There is sacredness to seeing the place where it all began for me … and my parents. There were no lightning bolt moments, no rockets, and no fireworks. But, somehow just being there, I have a bigger picture of myself … and of my parents.

Perhaps one of the most profound things that happened to me was the day our friend, Pam, took us to a local vineyard. While there, we met several Americans who live and have lived in the area for many years. They were having a brunch with the vineyard owner and quickly extended empty chairs and plates for us to occupy. As we talked and discovered one another, they knew a very prominent local figure that was born in the same village I lived. As I exchanged some basic geographical landmarks my Dad could remember, they knew the places of which I spoke. As we were parting company, one of the older men, Don, grabbed my hand and said, “Welcome home.” It was profound. This place I never knew felt like a place of “home”. When he uttered those words, I felt so moved. My head instantly fast forwarded to a day that will someday come. One day, I will enter my true home, one that Jesus has prepared for me for a very long time. As I enter this place, I know I shall see a baby Chris and I lost, I will see my Mom, and then I know I will see my Jesus … face to face. What a deeply intense moment that will be when He grabs my hand and says to me “Welcome home.” I will finally be at a place I’ve never been but was always meant to be … I will be home. Home will be sacred … and I will be complete.

Reflecting,
Christina

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Why is it that most of my childhood memories … ok … maybe adult memories as well … center around … FOOD?

This week I did some baking. This week I also shared some of my past with a new friend. Today, I mixed the two together … baked while thinking about my past. The end result … peanut butter cookies!

My Mom was a great cook. I have memories of her baking things seasonally that kicked-off a new time of year. For example, Monster cookies meant we were down for the long winter. She would have my Dad get “the big green bowl” to mix up the monster recipe. After making a few dozen for us little hungry peasants to sample, she’d tuck “the big green bowl” into the freezer until the next time. She’d make up a batch of spiced tea and hot chocolate mix, each having their designated Tupperware containers, for those cold winter nights. Dutch babies (a northern inspired soufflé kind of thing with lots of eggs) were a Saturday morning treat, reserved for cooler days. They came complete with homemade syrup. Homemade ice cream, vanilla only, from our turn crank ice cream freezer was always a summer staple. And, finally, the Pièce de résistance was cookies! Peanut butter, no bake, chocolate chip and snicker doodles were a regular cookie treat … but … the one cookie my Mom made that made my chubby little mouth water were … potato chip cookies.

Aww … potato chip cookies. I’m sure the FDA never got wind of my mother’s recipe, for if they had there would have certainly been some sort of “not safe to feed small children” warning accompanying these tasty morsels. Ingredients: sugar and lots of it, and, you guessed it … potato chips. The crowning achievement was the butterscotch chips that were added for pop of sugar.

I love my memories … and the food they center around. The best thing about the memories – no calories! However, as I bake my peanut butter cookies with my girls (and a visiting friend, Alyssa) I can’t help but wonder what little memories they are tucking into their brains while they are cramming the yummy goodness into their bellies.