Homes Along the Path

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Born at 12:52 AM. Half a century young. Wise beyond his years, a fact confirmed by the grey in his hair.

Today, Aaron Anderson turns fifty.

Fifty years ago, gas was about 59 cents a gallon. The average house cost was $44,000. Brand new cars were somewhere between four and five thousand dollars. Apple had been founded just one month earlier, in April.

It was a different world then.

More importantly, my father was born into it.

My dad turns fifty today. Where has the time gone?

My dad is my hero. He always has been, and I believe he always will be. I wanted to write this as a memoir to my dad, a collection of stories, memories, and lessons I’ve learned along the journey of being Aaron Anderson’s son. It is a name and a role I wear with honor, and something I cherish deeply.

Dad, happy birthday.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” Proverbs 3:5-6

In my earliest years, when we lived in Raleigh, North Carolina, there were late nights, or at least what felt late to a two or three year old, when my dad and I would go outside and play with lightsabers and blasters. They were the cool ones that lit up when you pulled the trigger, where for a brief second the darkness disappeared and you could finally see your opponent standing there in the night.

This is one of the core memories of my childhood.

I’m now the age my dad was during those nights in the yard. Looking back, I’m sure to him it was just a game, probably even a competition knowing my dad. 

But to me, it was pure bliss.

As I look back now, I realize those nights taught me something about who my father is. He is someone who loves deeply, he cherishes time with his family, and gives more than he takes.

We spent countless nights out there laughing and running around. Truthfully, he chased me far more than I ever chased him. And wow, isn’t there a sermon in that?

Our Father pursues us over and over and over again.

I recently got “GOD WITH US” tattooed on my arm as a reminder that we worship and love a God who pursues us, even more intentionally than those nights in the yard. Even in our sin, our shame, and our wandering, God is still with us, actively pursuing us. 

My dad taught me that as I grew into a man.

More importantly, he showed me.

He showed me in those late summer nights surrounded by lightning bugs, toy blasters, and fleeting flashes of light breaking through the darkness.

Growing up as Aaron Anderson’s eldest son has always felt a little like being born to a B-list celebrity.

Maybe even A-list if you live in York, Pennsylvania.

That feeling has only become more true now that he pastors Living Word. And yes, being a pastor at a megachurch adds to the “local celebrity” comparison. But the real significance is not the platform. It’s the journey that led him to this chapter of his story.

Rewind twenty years.

We moved to York, Pennsylvania when I was five or six years old. My parents know my memory is horrible, so give me a little grace on the details. We lived at 2407 Amethyst Road in a small ranch-style house with a bay window right in the middle of the living room. It was our family’s first stop on the journey and our little window into York.

Community formed quickly there. We met neighbors, got involved at Providence Presbyterian church, and slowly but surely started planting roots.

Before long, we were already outgrowing the house, and my parents began searching for something bigger. On an assistant pastor’s salary of around $41,000 a year, the best place to buy a larger home was the city.

God bless them.

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if God intentionally kept my dad’s salary low so we would end up at 604 Madison Avenue.

To me, that house is the heart of York City.

So much prayer, wisdom, laughter, hardship, ministry, and life came from that place, and honestly, it still does. My parents still live there today with my youngest brothers, David and Wesley.

There are enough stories from that house to fill entire libraries.

So I’ll just stick to a couple.

My brother Luke and I, man, we used to fight. We shared a room, and there was one time we fought and my dad had enough of it.

Grounded for a week. 

Right at the start of summer too. Brutal.

It was a rough couple of days. We were bored out of our minds. Reading, playing outside, no TV. Man, we loved TV. Especially video games. Come to think of it, we probably got grounded for fighting over some video game in the first place.

But another lesson my dad showed me was correction, then grace.

One night my dad came into our room while we were getting ready for bed and he had something behind his back. Luke and I were immediately suspicious. As he revealed it, we jumped for joy.

Black Ops 2...! Why would he do this?

He sat us down and we quickly realized this was not just a gift. It was a lesson. God gives us grace even though we don’t deserve it at all.

Ha. Luke and I never fought again after getting that game.

Kidding.

But I’m sure that moment stuck with him the same way it stuck with me.

As the six of us got older, there were more lessons and more love for him to give us. One of the biggest was fitness.

I started running with my dad when I was really young. We would run two or three miles at a time and I would cry when my chest hurt. But I grew, and eventually I could keep up with him a little better. Then we ran farther. Then faster. Then farther again.

We ran pretty consistently through the years, and he taught me the importance of taking care of our bodies.

We still run together to this day.

Actually, now that summer is coming, we should probably be running more.

At one point I was training for a marathon in October 2025 and my dad wanted to join me for my long run day. I had twelve miles scheduled.

Ooof. He was up for the challenge! Game on.

We started from 604 Madison and ran all the way to the rail trail, then headed south for a few miles before turning around.

Around mile seven or eight, my poor father had to use the bathroom.

Badly. Crap...

Yep. That kind of bathroom.

We slowed down the last couple miles, but he persevered. And the second we walked through the front door, man did he not sprint upstairs as fast as he could to go use the bathroom. 

Honestly, the relief must have been incredible.

He taught me a great deal on those runs. We talked through nearly everything imaginable, biblical questions, marriage, life decisions, and somehow even his craving for gummy bears while running.

Those runs were where life slowed down. Where we could simply be present together.

A good man cannot be good without a great wife.

My dad is married to Gail Anderson, who is a saint and a half.

My father is incredibly talented at so many things, but this poor fellow cannot do what my mom does to save his life. They say even a blind squirrel finds a nut, but I think my dad’s is still searching on how to make scrambled eggs.

My mother is an incredible match for my father. They balance each other beautifully, and I have never had even a split second in my life where I doubted they loved each other.

That love taught us a lot as kids.

As we got older and started getting married ourselves, we already knew the kind of love we wanted. The kind that is selfless, forgiving, consistent, and never failing. The kind of love Jesus shows us.

Their marriage is a gift, and I’m incredibly thankful they have each other. You married up dad. 

Now let’s talk about my dad’s wrath.

Gulp.

Long were the days where I would do something stupid and my mom would say, “You’ll talk with your father when he gets home from work.”

Oh, the dread.

And then my dad would come home and we would just sit and talk, and halfway through I’d realize, “Oh… this actually isn’t too bad.”

Or there were the nights when all six of us kids would get too rowdy around the dining room table and dad would slam his fists down to restore order. As we got older, I’d look over at Emily or Luke trying not to laugh while at the same time fearing for my life.

To this day we still joke about not angering dad at the dinner table. 

There is something about a father’s wrath that sounds terrifying in theory, but when it comes from a loving father, it is gentle, corrective, intentional, and never cruel.

Man, as I’m writing this, I’m getting teary-eyed thinking about how unbelievably blessed I am to have a father who loves so deeply.

And honestly, I feel even more blessed to be part of a family that walks with God.

I was young when we moved into the house at 604 Madison, and the place was a fixer-upper. My parents bought it cheap, and because they already had four kids at the time, cheap labor was easy to come by.

There was a massive tree in the backyard, and I remember at one point having a truck come pull the stump and root system out of the ground. But pieces of the tree were still scattered around the yard afterward.

Of course, being seven years old, I eventually found an axe.

My dad pointed to one of the leftover chunks of wood and told me that if I could split it in half, I’d get some kind of prize.

Prize?!

To a seven year old, that is music to the ears.

So I got to work. I chopped and chopped and chopped. At some point I took my shirt off, because apparently even then I was fully operating in classic Ellis fashion, and I kept swinging away at this poor piece of wood.

Now, something that would have been very helpful for seven-year-old Ellis to know was that wood grain runs lengthwise, and if you want to split a log properly, you should swing with the grain, not across it.

I, however, was attacking this thing from completely the wrong direction.

But I kept going.

Swing after swing after swing.

And then finally:

SPLIT.

I did it.

The log cracked in half and I immediately went running to claim my prize.

Truthfully, I don’t even remember what the prize was.

But looking back now, I don’t think the prize was ever really the point.

What I really wanted was for my dad to look at me and be impressed that I had accomplished something hard.

That pattern honestly followed me through most of my childhood and even into adulthood. I was always reorganizing rooms, building something, creating something, or finishing some random project, then immediately dragging my parents in to look at what I had done.

I cared deeply about what my dad thought of me. I wanted him to be proud.

And the beautiful thing is, he was.

Never for a second growing up did I doubt that my dad cared for us.

Not just because he said it, but because he showed it.

He coached our sports teams, taught us music, taught us about investing, gave everything he had to his work, and somehow still found energy left over for us at the end of the day.

My dad has always given 110% to the people he loves.

And we always felt it.

Now that I’m a father myself, I have a lot to look up to and a lot to live up to.

This season of my life is a road my dad has already traveled. He paved the way before me, and now I find myself following a well-worn path. Sometimes that path feels dim, uncertain even, but it is always lit by a warm glow in the distance.

Long grass brushes against my feet as I walk, flowers growing wild along the edges of the trail. And when I look to the left and right, I see homes.

Small homes. Warm homes. Homes filled with stories.

Inside each one are memories, laughter, discipline, forgiveness, prayers, dinners around tables, kids running through hallways, tears, celebrations, and people simply trying their best to love each other well.

Maybe one day there will be a home along that same road where I’m reading this memoir to my own son, Parker, as he prepares to become a father himself.

I think those homes represent legacy.

Not perfection.

Not material wealth.

Not status.

Love.

The kind of love that shapes generations to come.

Every home looks a little different, but I know my own path will continue to be lit by the warm glow of the homes my parents built for us. And I believe that glow will help guide me toward becoming the husband, father, and man God intends me to be.

That path will look different for my mom, Heather, Emily, Devin, Luke, Noelle, Amelia, David, Wesley, Parker, and someday Emily’s little one too and generations to come. But I believe all of us have been shaped by the faithful life of one man: our dad, husband, father-in-law, pastor, and pops.

I have never necessarily lived in the shadow of my dad, but I am always quick to introduce myself as Aaron’s son. Like I said before, I wear that badge with pride and honor.

We all spend our lives trying to make a name for ourselves, but my dad has spent his life wearing the name of his Father well.

And I think that’s why it has always felt so safe to walk under his wing.

Music.

My dad gave me a love for music at a very early age. He taught me guitar when I was around eight years old, and many of those lessons ended with sore fingertips because he would physically move my fingers onto the strings and tell me to press harder.

Naturally, calluses began to form.

At first, it hurt. I honestly didn’t enjoy it very much. But eventually, after pushing through the pain, or maybe after dad pushed me through it, there was knowledge and freedom waiting on the other side.

How many times in life do we quit right before the fruit begins to grow?

The pain of pressing those strings over and over again slowly built strength in me. And that strength eventually opened doors into other things: piano, writing, creativity, discipline, maybe even this memoir itself.

Had I quit simply because it hurt, I probably would have missed out on far more than learning guitar.

Thank you, dad, for teaching me perseverance, even when the road gets rocky.

Well, this is getting long, so I should probably wrap this up with one of my parents’ favorite pastimes…

Walking.

My parents love to walk, and they like to walk fast. Heather, my wife, jokes constantly about how hard it is to keep up with them. Before my mom’s knee surgery, they walked all the time together. Especially during COVID, when they found a rhythm in long walks around York and time together. 

Friedrich Nietzsche coined the phrase “a long obedience in the same direction,” and Eugene Peterson later popularized it in his book by the same title.

Discipleship is exactly that.

A long, slow, enduring journey.

Not something flashy, hurried, or performative.

My dad’s walk with Christ has been slow, enduring, peaceful, at times difficult, but most importantly, consistent. This is the most important part of his story.

When I picture my father, I picture a man walking with his heavenly Father through quiet pastures, beside still waters. Listening to Him speak. They will talk, they will sing, they will sit in silence, they will eat together, they will dance, they will cry, and they will live. 

And at the end of the day, I believe God will look down at His little boy and say:

“Aaron, well done, my good and faithful servant. I love you.”

At the cross, at the cross

Where I first saw the light,

And the burden of my heart rolled away,

It was there by faith I received my sight,

And now I am happy all the day!

Dad, Happy 50th Birthday. I loved every second of writing this. You are one of my greatest inspirations, a man whose life matches what he believes, and someone I look up to with the fondest of memories.

Some sons inherit money.
Some inherit stories.
I inherited a father worth becoming like.

Love always,
Ellis