Where is home for you?

Home…it’s a word that I am contemplating a lot since the conclusion of a recent eleven day family road trip, which took us out of the hot and humid state of Georgia and far away to the great and non-densely populated state of South Dakota. We had a wonderful trip, but I am confused at the conflicting feelings I experienced towards the end of our adventure. First, driving through beautiful South Dakota stirred my desire to move. Frequently throughout adulthood, I have been bitten by the “let’s move” bug. Yet, a day or so later in our trip, I could not wait to return home. That eleventh day was especially torturous as my entire being longed to escape the minivan and simply teleport home. Now my trip is complete, and I am reflecting on the simple yet complex idea of home.

Mainly I want to understand what that intense desire to return home was all about, especially in light of the opposing desire. Or do the two seemingly conflicting desires actually correlate and reveal something? Not sure. But I sense there is something here that needs to be dug up and shared with the world. Or maybe I just need to personally process and find some peace about my conflicting emotions at the tail end of yet another awesome family road trip. Why was I tempted to run? Why did I long to return?

It seems more clear to examine why I wanted to relocate. As in, never return home. Uproot my entire family and start over.

That word uproot is where we need to pause and focus because prior to this moment as I have been pondering why I wanted to come back, the word rooted has stood out to me. Intertwined as well. This post is a bit all over the place. Please bear with me. My discombobulated thoughts surely have a nugget of gold, but it keeps eluding me. This concept of home is not clear to me yet, and I want to gain clarity. I want to understand what is so special about home. Why did I want to return so earnestly while just prior wanting so much to start all over? That makes no sense to me.

On a road trip, I can connect with someone. But only briefly. After my one week trip to the tiny island country of Dominica, I mention that reality in a previous post. However, back home, I can be rooted with someone. Intertwined. Connected in a long term way not just in passing. I wanted to go home because I am rooted there. Not merely connected.

But the rooting aspect is also exactly the reason I wanted to relocate. To uproot. To disconnect. Completely separate. The past two years have been especially hard, but I have adapted. Now the issue is the new people in my life who have gotten a glimpse of the real me. The people who know I am not perfect. Back home I feel very seen. Very vulnerable. Very imperfect. Going home is forcing me to face vulnerability that I want to avoid. Relocating allows me to appear more perfect than I am. At least for a time. Going home involves shame that would not exist around people who have yet to know the real me.

Additionally, going home this time is forcing me to face the hard reality that when I return, my daughter and I will be each down a friend. Grief awaits us. Home is a place where I am intertwined with people I am forced to let go of against my will. Home connects me but not forever. Home is shifting. I cannot keep it static. I cannot control home. Consequently, home hurts at times and makes me want to run and start all over. Relocating allows me freedom from pain. Or so it seems.

But that is all an illusion. I know that. But at times it is such a tempting illusion.

Finally a sobering thought helped me see more clearly. If I were to start over somewhere new and exciting, I would still be there. Me. I cannot get away from me and all my stuff that I lug into every single zip code. Life experience has taught me that my personal battles will follow me everywhere. A change of environment means little if I still show up.

My observations at breakfast at the ranch in South Dakota also further shattered the illusion. Two years ago my husband and I stayed at this isolated Airbnb in the middle of absolute nowhere South Dakota near the Badlands, and we loved it! This time we had two kids in tow and were excited to share the joy with them. Our youngest two loved the views, the animals, the breakfast, and the breathtaking sunset. We had a blast as we revisited. But three quick interactions between the members of the host family totaling less than a minute made me realize something. Raising teenagers is still hard in this picturesque setting. Marriage is still a struggle. Clearly this host family had not found paradise in a seeming paradise. South Dakota is as cursed as Georgia. Relocating promises an easier life, but that is a lie. Life is hard everywhere, which is a reality I do not easily swallow. Every time I travel I seem to be lured into believing there is a place free of hardships. Free of the daily fight. But God keeps providing small reminders each trip that only eternity will be perfect.

Besides my husband reminded me I would have to leave people behind if I moved, implying that would be sad. I am not convinced. People are one reason I want to relocate. People who have hurt me will be left in the dust. People who know the real me will no longer be a threat of using my weaknesses against me.

But then I thought of the blessing it was to have someone know the real me and not reject me. To be seen and still accepted. To be vulnerable and still feel safe. Additionally, I thought of the people who I truly would be sad not to see again. Did I really want to foolishly walk away from the good I had experienced back home because bad existed there as well?

Then on the trip we returned to a small town that I have repeatedly visited the past ten years with my oldest child. Due to life circumstances, this would most likely be the last time I would be in this serene spot where I had made so many memories. I knew I was saying goodbye. Almost to a second home in a way. There I go using the word home again when I am still trying to understand what it means. All I know is it hurt to say bye to that small town. I did not want to let it go. I did not want to be permanently separated. But the time had inevitably come.

When my daughter heard my desire to start over, she quickly reminded me that community is hard to build and that she did not want to move. She had just spent a week at a camp not knowing anyone but her brother and his best friend, both who were not in her cabin, on her team, or around her all that much. She had felt very alone. Very friendless. The first two days were especially hard. Eventually connections and good memories were made, and she was even sad to leave the final day. However, the very real struggle of starting over was fresh on her mind and she wanted nothing to do with my illusion.

In addition, had I totally forgotten all I had learned twenty years prior when my husband and I had uprooted and moved to a new state? Believing my location was the problem, I had been eager to relocate back then as well. Before long I learned the new location was not solving my problems but actually had increased them. Ten years passed before I became content with the zip code, which I detailed in a blog piece. Apparently, I needed to reread my own past discoveries.

On the flip-side, upon returning home after the long road trip, simply seeing the neighbor again out walking his dog as I drove by and both of us waving to one another was encouraging to me. He knew me, and I knew him. More than that. He saw me. He acknowledged me. I was visible. He was visible. We interacted. This encounter was a clue as to why I did actually want to return home. Community. My daughter had said it immediately but my comprehension was delayed. Home is community. Belonging. Seeing and being seen.

Community takes time, effort, and vulnerability. Waving that first time to the neighbor trusting he will return the gesture is a small, concrete step toward building community. Opening up with a local pastor and sharing how things really are and hoping you will find strength and encouragement and not condemnation is a risky step in building community. Asking a potential good friend to coffee a second and third time and hoping she will find you as enjoyable to hang out with as you find her is a courageous step in building community.

Relocating takes me to a place where no one knows me, what I have overcome, what my struggles are, nor my strengths. Relocating takes me away from everyone whom I have taken the time and risk to get to know and whom I have dared to trust.

Home is where I have allowed people to know me and I have made the effort to know them. Home is where people have had my back and I have had theirs. Home is where I have brought joy to people and they to me. Home is where I have made memories, good and bad. Home is where I have grown and where I have failed but gotten back up again. Home is where I have overcome. I want to return home because that is where my life is. Road trips are fun. Starting over is tempting. But home is where I have invested myself and will continue to do so. Where I will sow. And where I will reap. Home is more than connection. Home is community.

Maybe one day I will move and start all over. After all, I do have a desire to try out New York City for a stint. But for now, I will wave to the neighbor walking his dog. I will go to the church where people know I am not perfect and still accept me. I will let go of the friend that must move away, knowing goodbye is not the end nor will she be the last person I am able to deeply connect with. I will raise teenagers and love my spouse, understanding this calling would be challenging in any zip code. After traveling over 4,000 miles, there is something very desirable about returning to my own home that is hard for me to grasp or articulate. I instinctively want home. My place of deep investment. My hard built community.