Coming home…

I stood in Washington D.C., waiting in line to board my next bus to Atlanta. I was on the phone with my mom in an obtrusively large cement block home to a fleet of large buses discussing details of my travel when, out of what seemed like nowhere, over-sized, traitor tears began streaming down my face.

“I’m sad.” My voice cracking giving the tell-tale sign that something was up.

My mom wondered aloud if I was ready to be home.

And the answer was yes, but the strange part was…it also felt as if my tears were, in part, because I was leaving home too. 

~~~~~

It has been exactly 48 days since I was in Atlanta. I have been in two countries, 4 different states, and countless cities. I have watched the sun rise and set over both the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans. God has gifted me numerous blessings throughout the past couple of months but I think the least expected–and most awesome–gift came this past weekend. 

I had the unique opportunity to visit some friends that I have known since high school and college. Three guys and one girl, four magnanimously awesome people.

These guys are “my people.” They make up a wonderful group of friends that I have the incredible opportunity to continue being a part of since our time together in college. 

I am not entirely sure what makes me so special to be one of the few girls in this group that is not a wife or girlfriend to one of the guys. I take no credit as their charm and awesomeness seem to grow with our every encounter…and I am over here just chillin’.

The saying goes that, “home is where the heart is,” but what does that really mean exactly?

I seems as if I have left pieces of my heart in many places over the preceeding days, but I wouldn’t call Seattle, Oregon, or Canada “home” by any means. 

There is something about being deeply known and accepted that is a game changer in deciphering what this saying truly means. These people know me. They know my story. They know that when we’ve spent 30 minutes in the farmer’s market and I say, “Ummm are we close to…” my words drifting off into the pastry-scented wind, “a bathroom?” is most likely to be what follows. They know that when we walk down the street I am probably going to link my arm in theirs…and they let me. They know the scary places, the hard spots, and the ugly pieces of who I am…and accept me anyways. 

I think home is where you feel known and accepted. 

Home is where you don’t have to explain that you have to pee an exorbitant and ridiculous amount, when your teammate knows you will win the next round of Cranium because you have to guess a Disney tune as he hums it–and he knows you will know it. Home is where you can spend an hour in a bookshop talking about everything and nothing and it is great fun. 

So as I stood in line to board the next bus, tears carving shiny paths down my dusty and dirty cheeks, I could not help but feel a little as if I was leaving home. 

We’re adults now. It’s weird. These guys that I watched goof off and throw the most epic parties in college are adults now. (And not of the boring variety.) They have somehow managed to balance the goofy, weird, awesomeness of who they are with growing up into men who work hard for big accomplishments. 

It is the greatest of gifts, this getting to “do” life with others who are important to you.

As life turns the page on this chapter, an adventure ending and another beginning, the only words that seem appropriate are “thank you.”

To my friends…thank you. Thank you for carving out a space in time in NYC where normalcy resided. Thank you for a weekend where I was allowed to be reminded and believe in the person that I have always been, that you have known me to be. 

Thank you for making me laugh so hard that I almost spew my drink everywhere and my cheeks ache as I try to go to sleep. Thank you for fun that is so intense that 3:30am comes and I hardly notice.

Jon Krakauer says in Into the Wild that “Happiness is only real when shared…” 

…thanks for sharing.