When an incomplete narrative is pounding away in your head: You'll make choices that will have consequences and the people you love will make choices that have consequences and you will not be able to save yourselves. 
When the small lake town seems less sweet, less pristine and warm and safe.
When home feels distant even while you are sitting in your own room in your own house and the babies sleep tucked in their tiny beds.

You'll fight back because that narrative has a bomb ending: But He will save you again and again; He will be made perfect in your weakness, He will be more when you are less, He will keep coming for You and anyone else who asks and the ending is not about you at all. What a relief.

You'll preach a storm to yourself about that small town where your husband was born, your son was born, where your 23 and 24 year old self battled through wilderness and flourished.  You'll remember that you felt called to stay even when it was dark.  Felt called to run the race hard in this small lake town even when it is bitter, murky, cold and harsh.

But you'll leave for a little bit, you'll start plotting that trip home, those 1300 miles of interstate with the kids in the back and that full tank of gas.  Your mom will shake her head at you and laugh.  Your dad will ask if flying might be a better idea.  Your friends back home will cheer and call you crazy.  Your husband will offer to fly out and drive you back because he needs to know you're coming back (of course, of course).   And a part of you that is just you, isn't a wife or a mother or even a daughter or sister, that part of you will speak up.  It's time to go home to the yard and the bookshelves and the kitchen counter.  It's time to go to a space where breathing is, again, involuntary, and to run that road with the hill, collapse on that couch, sit out on that patio under that big, fat, Nebraska sky.  The midwest is about to put on its finest fall leaves and it, my friends, is time to go home.