Whenever we’ve looked for a new house, a big yard for my children always remains on my list of “non-negotiables.” Both my husband and I grew up with not only large yards but access to the forest without any houses in sight the moment we stepped out of the back door. This gave both of us a life of exploring nature and learning about the creatures and plants that lived around us. We learned how to walk through the woods without getting lost, what berries and plants are safe to eat, and how to respect the wildlife that hid in the shadows or crossed our paths.
But being an only child, I struggled with loneliness in my wide, rural world. I had only one friend within walking distance, but it was still quite far away, and my mother didn’t want me to walk alone because the houses in-between were sparse (and living on a dirt road without speed limit signs meant people drove however they liked). While it was a good lesson to learn how to play by myself, there were many days I desperately wanted to spend time with my friends.
During my pregnancy with my twins, I had to spend six weeks of that pregnancy in the city to be monitored. As I talked to one of the nurses caring for me and told her about where I lived, she gasped and scoffed at the amount of time it took us to get to a grocery store and exclaimed that she could never live that way. What happened when we got bored? What happened when we wanted to visit someone? What happened if you were in the midst of cooking a meal and realized you were missing an essential ingredient?
You make do. Yes, it’s inconvenient. It’s lonely. I don’t always want it either.
And yes, I worry about my kids sometimes too.
What will they do without a friend down the block? Who will they play with when all their friends are at least twenty minutes away, if not more? How will they learn independence when they can’t walk to school or the grocery store by themselves? Group projects in school will be a nightmare of driving and coordinating like they were for me.
But when I sit with my rural upbringing long enough, I know these hitches are only half the story.
Rural living gave me patience; I learned how to sit through long drives to the hospital, grocery store, doctor’s office, and school. I learned that mail can take several weeks to show up or that the Internet can take hours to load a video. At times the spring rain made the road too muddy to drive on for days or the made the river rise to cover the bridge.
Life is a lot like what Wendell Berry describes in Hannah Coulter; you know everyone within your village, and you all come together to help one another out. When the roads flooded, the family down the road with the big truck drove all the kids to school through the water. When forest fires raged close to our home, neighbors came with horse trailers to get our horses somewhere safe. We learned to come alongside one another despite our differences when the community was in need.
I think a lot about the novel, The Secret Garden. A young, spoiled little girl named Mary grew up with little access to nature. She had maids who took care of her and allowed her to scream at them. When her parents died, her uncle in the marshes of Yorkshire took her in. He didn’t have much time to give to her, and neither did his staff in the large manor, so she had to learn to play outdoors. That time changed Mary; it made her more joyful, imaginative, thoughtful, selfless, and physically healthy. Being out of doors taught her to look outside of herself and her troubles and to the beauty of the world around her. She learned how to play without toys and maids entertaining her—she learned independence and how to imagine.
Isn’t that the kind of life I want to give my children? I want to teach them to respect the critters creeping along the ground or swimming in the water, to look up at the big trees and wonder at the majesty of their Creator. I want them to experience what the Bible meant when it said, “Look to the ant, you sluggard,” or, “Just as your Heavenly Father cares for the birds, so he cares for you.”
I want their imagination to flourish as they gaze upon the deer paths snaking through the forest or the varied colors of the wildflowers. In our technology-driven age, I want my children to value waiting, quietness, and wonder. I want them to learn how to entertain themselves with sticks and rocks rather than a screen.
I have fought with discontentment, longing for a big city at times and to be closer to all the conveniences. When those feelings rumble inside, I’ve learned to step outside and remember why I chose to stay here: Because I want to give my children the gifts of the rural life I had. They may decide to grow up and live in a big city, and I will kiss them and give them my blessing. But I want them to learn the lessons I did and have those same experiences. They shaped and formed me into the person I am, and I hope it will do the same for them.
Featured image by wirestock
You can find more of her writing at https://laradentremont.com
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