Hold on tighter.

On the east coast of North Carolina, there is a little town named New Bern. For 18 years of my life, this was my home; where I lived, went to school, grew up, made friends. However, I like to say I grew up in three places. The second being Pamlico County and the third, well, we’ll get there in a later blog.?

Pamlico County is about 30 minutes outside of New Bern and the home of the small community of Maribel. It’s so tiny that instead of saying “Maribel,” I usually just refer to Pamlico County as a whole. It’s where my dad grew up and where his family farm is located - a chunk of land we still own and cherish today.?

My farm is a place I have never not known—one of those innate pieces that has just always been there. Like, if you grow up with a boat, or two parents, or a home, or food to eat each day, you may not realize it’s a blessing; how many things had to go right for you to experience how unique and special it really is.?

My farm was like that for me—until I moved away from it.?

When my dad was growing up, his family ran an old country store. I spent my childhood hearing the stories he would tell about sitting on countertops, working there after school, helping his mom pack orders and bag groceries. He always had a dream of renovating it—taking its worn, 20-years-untouched state and transforming it into a livable time capsule.?

Despite others' doubts, he did just that. It was established originally in 1948, closed in 1972 and reinstated as our family getaway, “the store,” in 2007.?

My dad has always been marked by resilience; his ability to produce an idea and relentlessly pursue it until he accomplishes it. He is deaf to doubts. He is sure of himself. I’ve watched him write his own book , switch jobs, lead our family, give speeches, love friends well, fight through pain and hardships. He is aware that failure is a possibility, yet he pursues things as if it's not. I have always sat in wonder of that—quietly learning. Trying to put it into practice myself.

The store is the most unique place—with the original countertops and shelves still intact, lined with old bottles, pictures and ads, even the old cash register still sitting on the countertop.?

I vaguely remember jumping off the inside framing of the walls, thinking I was flying—but mostly all of my memories of the store are of it completed. As I grew up there, its special qualities felt lackluster to me. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate it—I didn’t understand its beauty. I didn’t quite get why my dad needed it to be saved. But over the past few years, I've begun to understand.

I’ve learned that the farther you get from things, the more you appreciate them. It’s a twisted logic, but in a sense, it’s true. Our innate nature as humans is greed—to want more, to dissect our lives and point out everything we need instead of everything we have. Sometimes good things can feel normal, boring, until you live life without them. Until you meet new people with different experiences and realize that your mundane life could be someone else’s miracle, dream, just-struck-gold moment.?

Last weekend, I packed my car and started on the two-and-a-half hour drive home. And man, I love this drive. It's my time to think, listen to a podcast, pray, sing, play a new album—all things that help me slow down. Recenter.

During those two hours, my mind wandered to the things I'm now farther from. I thought about how it felt to leave for college and return home for the first time. I remembered having the realization that while home will always be home, it is now a place I visit. Somehow, seeing my parents everyday turned to FaceTime calls and weekend trips.?

So, I started holding on a bit tighter to those moments. I started asking them the important questions and being more present; allowing myself moments to sit back, look, and notice the rarity within my simple normalities. To feel the time passing by while also soaking it in.

Holding on tighter. We always start doing it when we realize our own mortality—that things can slip away.

There is beauty in that, though. There is rich gratitude in having something to hold on tighter to.?

I know my dad knew this. Finally being what he’d always prayed he'd be—a husband and a father—his sight deepened. Seeing the store in all its decay, calling it a “fixer-upper” would’ve been a massive understatement, but he saw somewhere that raised him. He couldn’t let it slip away. He knew he had to hold on tighter, make new memories, share them.

That is all we can do, really. When things slip away—people, places, they may never be the same again. All we can do is preserve them; appreciate the ways they have shaped us and pass it on.?

After those two or so hours, I finally reached my exit. I arrived at my family’s favorite restaurant to meet them for dinner and was met with the biggest, warmest hug. Just like always.

I usually pull away after a little while, allowing my hunger or my hurried disposition to pull me out of the moment. But this time I allowed myself to linger. I remembered how many things had to go right for me to experience that moment. And all I could think was,

Hold on tighter. Don't let it slip away.

Hold on tighter. Don’t let it slip away.