It’s amazing to me how my ancestors lived, worked, and worshiped within a couple of miles of where I stand today. We tilled the same soil, walked the same dusty roads, and watched the same sunsets fall over these rolling hills.

What strikes me most is how connected their lives were—to each other, to this land, and to their faith. They labored through seasons of joy and hardship, built families, survived wars, and found purpose in the rhythms of country life.

And now, a century later, I find myself standing on their ground, watching as the world changes once again. The old fields are being divided, new homes are rising where wildflowers once grew, and the quiet creeks that powered the mill now run past neighborhoods instead of cornfields. City folks are coming down from Atlanta, drawn to the same peace and quiet my ancestors called home.

Yet even as the landscape changes, the roots remain. They are buried deep in this soil, in the stories that linger in the breeze, in the gravestones at the end of the road, and in the memories passed from one generation to the next.

I hope that we can hold onto those stories, and keep their memory alive—not just in history books or genealogy charts, but in the way we live, love, and look after this land they left for us.

Because in the end, it’s not just about where they lived… it’s about how they lived. And somehow, I believe they’d smile to see their great-grandchildren still calling this place home.

“Thus says the Lord: Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, where the good way lies; walk in it, and find rest for your souls.” — Jeremiah 6:16