500 Words Per Day: Long Weekends Home
I have had a lot on my mind this weekend. I got some scary news on Friday afternoon right before I was ready to leave work. I kind of thought that perhaps having a weekend away would take my mind off of things. It didn't.
Now I'm back home, after spending the last 48 hours or so with my family–seeing nieces and nephews and sons and parents and in-laws and siblings; going for drives around the countryside with my brother; seeing a lot of things I hadn't seen for quite a long time, and attending worship at our home church–nearly the entire family present. It was good times and it was happiness.
Now I'm back home, and here I am thinking about tomorrow again. It's like I picked up right where I left off on Saturday afternoon. I'm doing some writing. I'm listening to some music. I hear the rustle of my wife and sons in the background. I'm doing a little work in preparation for tomorrow's start of extended school days.
Now I'm back home again, back to the earthy place I dwell on a day to day basis. Truth is, however, that this weekend taught me some things about life. I happen to live in a small, rural, one street community–I call it a drive-through community. But it's not my home. I think I may have discovered where my home is this weekend: it's a little girl named Faith; it's my eldest son who lives with my in-laws; it's my parents; it's my brothers; it's my nephews; it's my home church. It's in Youngstown; it's in East Liverpool; it's in Beaver Creek State Park. My home is wherever I am with the people I love and who love me.
Now I'm back to the house where I live my life. The printer is whizzing back and forth dropping ink blots in the shape of letters on the white paper. The washing machine is buzzing in the background. The dryer is also spinning–I know this because I hear the consistent click-clack of a button hitting the sides of the tumbler. I hear cars and trucks rumbling past the front of my house. I'm paying attention to everything just enough so that I don't have to pay attention to anything in particular.
Yet none of this is enough to distract my troubled mind. Home or away, in a house or in a home, my mind has traveled far this weekend yet no matter how far it has traveled it has landed on the same sun every single time. The music cannot be loud enough, the laughter cannot be boistrous enough. My wings were strong enough to carry me away, but my my mind and heart were distracted enough to render my sense of direction moot and mute. So I always ended up right…back…here.
For what? Truth is, it's tough to decide where my heart is. Is it here? Is it there? Sometimes I just wish I was at home.