For a month we stayed in my parents' house, climbed the spiral stairs, tucked the babies into rooms that housed my siblings and I when we were small, brighter eyed, tired in a different way.  We walked the woods and the neighborhood and they rode their bikes in the dead end for hours.  I rested to the sound of my father mowing the lawn, my mother typing at her desk.  I woke in the morning to the bustle in the bathroom, the kitchen, and, after a season of feeling absolutely spent, I started to fill.  Almost everyday I packed the kids up and we visited all of my old haunts: the library (that smell!), the museum, the zoo, the orchards and pumpkin patches and, sweetest of all, dear friends' houses where our kids played together, sat and read books together, scarfed down lunches and raced back to their games and my heart that had been so hungry started to still.

My parents are selling the family home and so I had expected to spend a month slowly saying goodbye.  What I had not expected was how hard it would be to leave after a month of my son learning from the same Sunday School teacher I taught with, a month of him going to Cubbies on Wednesday evenings and flinging verses around after.  I hadn't foreseen how teary I would be when the same woman who held me as a baby in nursery would eagerly hold my sad daughter, too.  Or the rush of emotion at the end of a seasoned mother of 10's talk (rally?) to all of us younger moms: We can't force them to love Jesus, girls, or we would.  But, we can win them!  And through them, we can win their children and their friends and..."  

Nate flew out to drive me home (he knew I'd need a push to leave) and I don't think he was surprised by the quiet weeping as we drove away from that haven, drove down the interstate and out of the land of "the good life."  But he was taken aback by the way I prickled and sobbed as soon as we walked into our own sweet home.  As much as I love the mountains and the lake and the dear family and friends here.  As much as I find this small, quiet town to be sweet and simple.  I'm also mourning the richness and depth, the faithfulness and wisdom of my midwest roots.  Mourning the conversations with friends who preached Scripture to me, asked me heart deep questions, and also had the good sense to let me order dessert for dinner.  There's something so beautifully solid about the community He birthed me into.  There's something incredibly rare about going home to a church full of people who raised you.  It's the hug of a 80 year old woman who squeals when she sees you.  It's your old youth pastor hunting you down and spending a good hour talking life with you.  It's hugs from women who have mentored you, prayed you through so much of life, who still seem to know everything about you.

I thought I was saying goodbye to a home and I was prepared for it to be one of the hardest goodbyes I've had.  But I found home still alive and well and in every corner of that city I love and you better believe I am going to find a way to do it again every year, no matter where my parents land, because I can't let my kids miss the rich heritage there.  What a gift to go, and what a gift to come back.