He Married Kansas

It may have been apparent from my "reasons to love Kansas" facebook statuses over the summer, but I am more than a little grateful for having been born and raised in such an blest land. A while back a friend sent me an article that her brother-in-law had written and had published in the Salt Lake City Diocesan newspaper while he lived out there. I feel obliged to pass it along because it is just so dang awesome. Enjoy (and if your not from Kansas I'm sorry if you don't get it, you'll have to come and experience it for yourself sometime):

I Married Kansas

by Kase D. Johnstun

When hills turn to valleys along the flat landscape of the Missouri river, she starts to get excited. Her voice inflections while reading Harry Potter become more exuberant, and she glances more often off the pages at the stringy flapping corn rows and the "Beef, it’s what for dinner" signs that contrast the feeding cows behind them, unknowing of their inevitable fate – they’re for dinner. Once corn becomes drastic slants and curves of rocky-northern, dust bowl shards of land, she knows she is home. Conversation becomes focused. Autumn is playing golf and doing well at it. Chelsea’s back-hand springs are getting better. Kristen and Doug have a new puppy. Mom is threatening to quit her job, because they treat her like crap. Dad has been doing concrete in Kansas City.

The nighttime glow of the cities is gone and the stars from my childhood reappear. They’re still out there, vastly spanning and sparkling across the entire sky, and the feeling of minuteness of childhood returns – they are still there and I am still small. In the scope of the universe, I have not grown. She looks up at them too. To her, the stars mean home, a home with stars that have not gone away, stars that are a cradle of comfort in the deep Kansas night that stretches for miles of quiet miles. The quiet, expansive miles surround me as I look for a non-existent horizon and I feel tiny again.

Everything is 15 minutes away by car. How far until we get to Pittsburg? 15 minutes. How far away is your grandma’s? About 15 minutes. How far until Wal-Mart? About 15 minutes. Any idea how long it is going to take to get everyone in the car? Easily 15 minutes.

At nine, at 12, at 18, and at 22, I could have never trekked the trails of my mountainous imagination and seen the mile-by-mile roads of Southeast Kansas, the deep and life-long connection I now have to it, the new family that waits for us to visit, the upstairs bed that creaks, and the random cats the creep outside during the night. I married Kansas – the cold, windy Christmas mornings, the small town festivals, the cake walks, the fried chicken, the hospitality, the friendliness, the eternal optimism of Christian living, the dead silent nights, and the howling coyotes – I married Kansas.

I married Kansas, the stories about eight man football, the large American flag in front of the high cross in front of the VFW, the church where all social events are held, from rowdy wedding receptions to elementary school birthday parties. I married long pauses between words, making sure everything has been said, as to not rudely interrupt, calmly listening until I have made my point, as to make sure I felt I had something important to say.

When I stood at the end of the stretching Cathedral Aisle, Kansas walked to me, clutching her father’s hand, looking as beautiful as a harvest sunset. Kansas took my hand and sat next to me during the service and said, I do. The small creatures that roam the night in the fields and the tornado shelters looked up at me and cried and walked back down the aisle with me holding my hand tightly, waiving to our families. I married Kansas, a love for family that roots in the rich soil of soy beans and wheat and grows strongly with every season, popping out proudly and strong above the dark, clay-like detritus of her mother. The doors of the Cathedral opened and together, the warm love and comforting smile of Kansas and I walked out together. Kansas kissed me, and I said I will love you forever, Kansas.