Whenever I Go Home, I Leave Home

I have a home eight thousand miles from where I was born and raised. No one I am related to is there, not even my own children. We have a house there. In my house are all the things I have accumulated, furniture of twenty years, thoughtfully arranged pictures and decorations. Our house is a happy place, full of joy and people we love. Over the years many people have lived with us and become our family there. We have many who look to us as parents and to whom we are aunt, uncle or grandparents. We are loved. I love making a difference in people’s lives, being used of God. We have room for visitors and many guests. I enjoy my dogs and my lovely garden. I love the green landscape and the smell of the ocean. On the other hand, the weather is hot and sticky and after all these years, the local food is still not what we crave. I can’t find clothes or shoes that fit me. While I have close friends, and work hard at understanding, I do not really share their culture. I speak the language well, but there are always things I miss and jokes I can’t for the life of me figure out. I can nod and smile. I don’t look like a local and don’t blend in.

I have a home where I was born and raised. My parents are there and my sisters. Spread around the country are our sons and daughters, wonderful people with wonderful mates and adorable, very bright children— of course! There are no other people on the planet I would like more to spend time with than my own children. I would love to get to know my grandchildren and have them know me. I know we are loved. Driving is so easy in America, and the food is great! I can buy corn tortillas! Orange juice! Church is in English, the sermons are spiritually stimulating and I can sing hymns if I go to the right service. There are public libraries, sidewalks and quiet streets. The weather is nice, I don’t sweat. I blend in and can be completely anonymous anywhere I go. No one stares at me. I understand the jokes and don’t worry about making cultural blunders. But we are there for a year or less, and I feel like a bird on a wire. I no longer have a house there, and my stuff, such as it is, stays in storage between visits. We can’t get too comfortable. While I have been gone, people have been leading lives very different from mine. I can’t relate to the things people complain about, other than the price of gasoline. To me, everything is pretty much just fine. Where I live, people would love to have it so good. Our shared everyday experiences are few. Coversations about vacations, cruises, camping, RVs, hospitals, pensions plans, HMOs, investments of various sorts, local politics, sports, reality TV, American Idol, what people whom I don’t know are doing now and which malls are the best, are lost on me. I can nod and smile. I look like a local but I don’t quite fit in. 

I have a home I’ve never been to. It is the home that all other homes are just a wonderful taste of. That’s where my heart is. My treasures are there.The perfect house is being prepared for me. When I get there I will be truly home. Everything will be the way it should be. There will be no more partings, no more good-byes. I will have all the important things in common with everyone else, and we will have converstaions of great interest to all of us. Only one thing will be important. But until then, it is a little bit of heaven anytime I can have fellowship with others who have tasted the goodness and grace of God, who share the joys and the struggles of being strangers and travellers on this earth. We are looking for a city not built with hands. We have so much in common! We nod and smile!

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This is a writing contest entry on the theme of "Going Home" from Scribbit.