We went home to the U.S. last month. When you are standing in the line for U.S. customs in Dallas with your U.S. passport, you feel it. “I am home.”
Then we boarded a plane for Utah, our most recent home, and when we landed in the very familiar Salt Lake airport, I thought it again. “I am home.”
The very next day, we loaded up a borrowed minivan and drove home to Oregon, the place where I was raised. It is a long drive, and when I’m coming down the hill from the beautiful Lake of the Woods, I feel it again. “I am home.”
After a couple of weeks, we return to the home of Matt’s Utah childhood, a place I have loved and visited for 16 years. My heart feels at home here as well.
We visit our former house in Salt Lake City, attend the familiar church next door, amongst dear people whom we consider our brothers and sisters. My tears flow. “I am home.”
A three-week trip, too short really, and we are back on a plane, coming home to Chile. We are tired, we unpack, we make a mess that will take a week to clean up. And we are home.
Home seems a singular concept, but in ways that I don’t completely understand, my heart is in many places. Not just in memory, but in the present tense. It’s both uncomfortable and beautiful — the tug of many places where I’d love to be.
Still, here we are in Chile. And as much as we love and crave our families and friends and “home” in the U.S., in this moment home is here, in my own house, with all of us under our own roof. It is a comfort beyond all of the others, and I don’t even want to go anywhere this week, just be here together. “I am home.”