Homecoming

When I walked through the door Thursday night, my first thought was, "It's COLD!" My first actions were to drop everything in my arms and make a mad dash to the thermostat... barely six feet from my front door. By the time I made it to bed that night, six hours later, the thought had drifted across my mind, "I guess I'm home."

It was a very different homecoming to the one I experienced three weeks ago when my sister was attacking me with hugs before I had a chance to drop my bags and packages and my aunt and mother were in the kitchen by a warm dinner. I knew then within seconds that I had come home.

When living life as a migrant got emotionally challenging during college (I wouldn't be surprised if Wendy still has nightmares about my end-of-semester packing) I reassured myself that it would last only these four years. Then I would have one "home." Nineteen months later, and I have not only a variety of places that are home, but a greater number of people whose presence says "home" to me. And, with grad school on the horizon, the next two years are not looking any more promising as far as finding a home.

I found, on my return, a unexpected switch. Catholic churches, by virtue of the Blessed Sacrament in the tabernacle, always feel "home" to me, no matter where or when. However, some (the CCM chapel, for example, or my home parish) have had special meaning to me. This year, my home parish is experiencing some turbulence, and it didn't have the same "welcome back" feel that I was expecting. Yet when I walked into the parish in the 'burg on Friday morning, I discovered that it was saying, "Welcome home!"