This song keeps running through my head.
"Can you picture our Christmas tree here? Where would we put it?" That was the first and main question I asked when looking for a house, a new place to call home.
"I just don't know if this is it, if this is where I can be 'home,'" I questioned.
"It is where those four children are, where our family is," my husband reminds me.
It is where their pattering feet are, their beds, their sweet laughter, that will be our home.
He is right, but somehow I am still unsettled.
All the boxes, all our stuff, the same pictures, their beds, the same mess. It all came with us. But this time, I am aware of a longing for something more, the "are we there yet" that I hear from the car the moment the car starts continues in my soul - the waiting for the arrival.
I unpack boxes and find just the right color to paint my living room. But I am still restless because this is not my home. This is not where I belong.
Yesterday, while watching football, of all things, sent me into an hour of homesickness, of longing for people to know who I am and still like me, of longing for friends that I do not have to try with anymore. I was homesick for friends that are home.
I was homesick for friends that meet me for coffee and cookies; for friends that run with me in take-my-breath-away cold and snowstorms; for friends that are okay with me making mistakes; for friends that drive me to the doctor when I have broken my foot or have cut my daughters finger with the nail clipper and do not have a car; for friends who laugh at my mistakes with me and let me see them in theirs.
I am thankful for the blessings that we have in this world. The blessing of people who have made this place a home while we wait for the home we were made for.