Today I’m making a trip “home” to our ex-home-town of 30 years, where I will stay for a week. Part of me wants to reconnect with old friends and familiar turf, while another part wants to stay right here in our snug-as-a-bug little house beside the cold-but-welcoming, white-capped lake. I’ve re-rooted here. This is home.
But nostalgia draws me, and once I get there I’ll have that, “I never want to leave” feeling all over again. I’ll drive around town with a million memories pressing in, reminding me of how I belong by virtue of familiarity. I’ll remember this store, that playground, the other restaurant. I’ll revisit friends, some of whom I’ve known for decades. I’m also planning to have lunch with a friend in a neighboring town I met in first grade a whopping 56 years ago.
At the end of the week I’ll return to my newer home, the one where promise predominates over memories. I’ll gladly return and embrace the fact that life is not static, but a matter of ongoing progression toward so many things: new relationships and experiences as well as deeper faith, understanding, and hope.
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