My husband took my son to Target. The house is dead quiet and I should be cleaning because I only got about half of it finished yesterday. I tried, really I did. But there was a walk to the park. There were cars that needed to be driven around the house and up the walls. There was lunch to be eaten and, when the nap was finally taken, there was a Christmas scrapbook that needed this year's page finished so that it could be put away. So I should be cleaning. Instead, (shock!) I'm blogging.
I think I'm finally starting to realize that I don't get to go home. Oh sure, I get to visit but IT IS NOT THE SAME! I don't think you can find yourself, permanently, in a completely different world and not feel changed, not feel shaken to your core, not feel, a little like hitting something. I'm not homesick the way I was at sixth grade camp where there were about 45 students for every one adult and I got the brilliant idea that since I only got one three-minute shower during the entire week I would put the shampoo in my hair before getting in, to save time, and consequently had greasy and disgusting hair for the rest of the week and the cold wind howled all night and I just wanted to go home. It's not like that. I cried at sixth grade camp, silently, in my bunk--and I'd been to camp before, I wasn't a weenie. I don't cry here. Here, I just feel, kind of, hollow. I know that cars are whizzing down Main Street and I can see them so clearly it's almost as if I'm there, running some errand. I know that women are walking up and down the aisles of my grocery store, stopping to chat when they see a friend. I know that world is spinning with a life that I am no longer a part of. This is the world I live in now. It's a world where I literally live for Sunday to come so that I can see a familiar face, so that I can soak up knowledge of my relationship with the Lord. I'm sure that is a very good thing. I am positive that there will be spiritual growth born of this journey.
Last night the wind whistled mournfully across the valley. It was cold and biting and, as I looked out the window, my street was asleep with the solitude that I feel, momentarily, when I throw a party laden with pity and invite...myself. I was suddenly sinfully jealous of people who, through circumstance, have security in the roots that have grown under them when I, myself, have been severed from mine. But how often do I mistake my own happiness for God's blessing? And how many times has God's reward shaken me to my very core? And how often is He right? Always. So if I could just push through this feeling that my feet are walking on uncomfortably foreign ground, maybe I would find that this is one of those times that He is carrying me. Maybe, upon further examination, I will discover only one set of footprints in the sand.