Back in the Garden State

New Jersey, bless its heart, is often treated like the punchline to a joke, exit numbers instead of names, jokes about the smell and how rude its people are. And I guess we’re stuck with all that nonsense, and I guess New Jerseyans will just keep taking it on the chin, as we do, in good fun.

They still do call it the Garden State after all, and I suppose some folks will say that with a smirk as well, like it too is a joke that’s been told too many times. But I know better. I grew up here. I’ve seen the sunlight stretch across fields just off the highway, and I’ve walked through neighborhoods where roses climb chain-link fences like they’ve got somewhere to be. It may not be Eden, but it’s grown a thousand small blessings, picnics, first kisses, barefoot summers, and for me, that nickname feels just about right.

It’s also where the fireflies first lit up my summer nights, where I learned to ride a bike on a cracked sidewalk. I can still remember the moment my dad let go of the seat of my tiny Huffy and watched as I pedaled my little legs like crazy, away from him. And it’s where the world still felt big and good and full of promise. Some of my most beautiful, most innocent moments happened right here, in the state everyone loves to laugh at, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

I’ve come back to New Jersey, the land of jughandles, pork roll, and debates over whether it’s “Taylor Ham” or not, which, to me, is practically a theological argument. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because my sister’s getting married this weekend, and the whole family has come in like a warm tide rolling back to shore.

Both of my nieces are here this weekend as well, two remarkable young women I’ve always cared for deeply, even if life never gave us quite enough time together. I hope to connect with them too while I’m here.

You kow, there’s something about returning to the place where you were born, where your feet first touched pavement, and your knees first got scraped on driveways. The air smells familiar, like leaves, saltwater, and diner coffee, and the light hits the trees in a way that reminds you of riding in the backseat while your dad hummed along to the radio and your mom offered you half a stick of chewing gum.

It’s not just nostalgia now, though. This place has become something more. My parents, God rest them, are now a part of this soil. Buried not far from where Mom would get us our Easter candy.

And now here I am, back where it all started, wishing they were here to see their daughter walk down the aisle. But even in their absence, their presence is everywhere. In the way my sister lights up when she talks about her soon-to-be husband. In the way my kids, all of them, came together under one roof with me and their mother, like planets falling back into orbit for just a moment. That alone was worth the drive.

This weekend, there’ll be music and cake and the clinking of champagne glasses. My sister will say “I do,” and we’ll dance until our knees remind us we aren’t twenty anymore. But beneath it all, beneath the party and the dress and the photos, is something sacred.

Because New Jersey isn’t just the place I came from anymore. It’s holy ground now. My parents are here, much of what made me who I am is here, and for a brief and beautiful moment, so is everyone I love.

And how special is that.