Home to Michigan

Where is home?  What does it mean to be home?  These are questions we've asked ourselves many times as we think about our future in Africa and about the fact that we're making a choice for our children to live in Africa while being tied to America and trying to find themselves somewhere in the middle of the great expanse between the two.  Where is home?  It's an interesting, even difficult, question.

But let me back up.

It was a hard winter.  It was hard because Eli worked so much.  Too much.  And it was hard because the snow kept falling rather than melting when spring should have come.  Having nearly sole responsibility for taking care of our son while being stuck inside during an elongated winter was hard.  Just plain hard.

So I had some meltdowns along the way, the last of which scared Eli enough that he strongly suggested I should go home for a visit.  He bought me a plane ticket to Michigan so I could get away, take a break, and rest my mind a bit.  It was a wise decision.

There are few places that help me breathe easier than going home to Michigan.  My parents' house is quiet.  Peaceful.  Spacious.  Familiar.

It's home.

My parents' house is definitely still home to me.  Every place I've lived since high school has been a temporary home, some for short stretches of time and others for longer, but temporary all the same.  That means I've spent the past 12 years not planting roots, with no sign of doing so any time in the near future.  We'll move from Duluth in a couple years to live in Africa, not knowing how long we'll ultimately be there.  But living somewhere and planting roots are not the same thing.  Some places we've lived have left indelible marks in our life, and we expect our future abode in Africa to do the same.  But will it be home?  Perhaps.  Time will tell.

We are wanderers.  And we're assigning our children to wander with us, at least for awhile.  It's not a bad life; it's just a way of living in the ever-present temporary.  Quite frankly, it regularly reminds us that we are living a temporary existence here on earth, that we are never truly home here, that we are wanderers in the truest sense of the word until we can finally, by God's grace alone, find ourselves at home.

While Eli and I enjoy the wandering for now, and even firmly resist planting roots anywhere, there is a part of me that aches for a place to call home, that aches to have a place that will always be there waiting for us whenever we need to return from our travels and wanderings.  But there is no place like that for me, except maybe in Davison, Michigan.  It's still there.  Still quiet.  Still peaceful.  Still spacious.  Still familiar.

Still home.

It won't always be there, but it is for now.  And I'm thankful to find myself there from time to time, resting, enjoying, breathing, being.  And I'm thankful that, for a little while longer at least, it provides a place for me to call home while I don't have any other place to call by that name.  Perhaps I do it out of comfort to myself.  "Yes, I have a place to call home, even though I haven't lived there in 12 years."  But even if it's only done out of comfort to myself, that's enough.  Comfort is enough.  Especially when I have meltdowns because the winter was too long and too hard.  When that happens, it's nice to have the comfort of calling someplace home, then having a marvelously wonderful and loving husband who'll fly me there when I need to visit.

So to home I went, with Caleb in tow, of course :)  And we had a lovely time (minus his major napping drama, or should I say non-napping drama).  We played and played, visited with lots of family, and fed carrots to the horse.  I also had the joy of spending quality time with my best friend.  And all of this amazing time was spent without any snow on the ground!  It was the first time I hadn't seen snow since November.  No joke.  And it was such a welcome sight!

So it was a week well spent.  My burdens were lifted for awhile and I came back to Duluth with new strength to keep going.  I thank God for a husband who saw me in one of my darkest hours and who knew what I needed to bring me out of that hour and into the next, and who had the love and compassion to do what was necessary.

And I'm grateful for my parents, who get it.  They've been there and done that.  They survived residency 30 years ago with three kids.  I feel like a total wuss compared to them, but they have compassion for us and for this unique phase of life that few people can even hope to understand.  But it's wonderful to have people who understand, and my parents do.

And they didn't mind having a chance to see Caleb again either, even though it was a series of total meltdowns that led to our visit.

visiting Grandpa at work

churning butter

bringing carrots to Breaker

I suppose, in the end, it's our brokenness that ultimately makes us long for home.  It was my struggling in the pit of residency, trying to claw my way out but utterly failing, that led to my longing for home in Michigan, and it's certainly my brokenness and depravity and utter failure to overcome it that makes me long for heaven.  So where is home?  With Jesus in glory.  What does it mean to be home?  To not be broken anymore and to have the freedom to give up the struggle completely because we've finally made it there: Eternity.  Home.