Heidi Henriksen
"Retracing Steps"
My favorite photo in my dad's photo albums is an image of my grandfather sitting on a stone mile marker near his childhood home. We also have a picture of my dad sitting on the very same marker. I have always dreamed of going to that place and having my turn to sit on the stone.
A traditional church sits nobly behind my ancestral stone. Situated on a hill and supported by a rock wall, it resembles a fortress for those who live in the small village surrounding it. The white plaster walls shine in the sun and illuminate the hillside, the graves carefully spread over the lawn surround the church like a maze. The large oak door stands silent, stoic. My great grandfather built that door, and it has symbolized the strength and heritage of my family since it was first attached to the church. This too has been something I have longed to see ever since I was first told of it. I always believed it held some special power, some secret about my past that no one would tell me.
Gejdberg Kirke is the name of that small, majestic church in Western Denmark. And on one long-awaited day, my parents, who had come to visit, took me to see it. They were worried we would get there and the stone, the house, and the church would be ruins, mere shadows of the historic monuments they had once been for my family. We were quite heartened and amazed to see them in great repair.
I climbed out of the car and saw my parents disappear around the corner, looking for the mile marker, no doubt. I slowly approached the door and with an electric pulse running through my body, reached out and touched it. The wood was warm and soft, worn down by so many hands pushing and pulling it open over the years. Every tiny notch chipped in its surface and every nail that held it together was a piece of my history. My great grandfather's hands had built this door. His family had watched as it was attached to the side of the church. My grandfather had walked in and out of it on his way to Sunday services. I stood and stared.
I watched the door as the sun slowly sank behind the hill and as it glinted off its polished surface, all of the stories that abided in its thick planks came alive in my head. I moved around to the back of the building and found my parents standing next to the mile marker. "Here it is," they said. My mom had the camera ready. My picture would be the third in a series which I hope will continue for many years to come. My dad looked at me and said, "Now it's your turn."
We took some pictures and walked around a little more. Before we left, I revisited the door. It still glowed in the low light of dusk, whispering stories to whoever stopped long enough to listen. As we drove away, I looked back at the marker and the church and realized that my home was no longer restricted to my house in northern Minnesota. It was there; in the door, in the stone wall that surrounded the building. My home was in the house my grandfather once lived in. My home was in that mile marker in a place I would remember for the rest of my life as the place my family came from. It was not only my home, but my homestead, the origin of my traceable history.