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Coming Home

We moved back to the community where I grew up two years ago on a whim, or so I thought.  We needed to find a place to live within two weeks, and my home town was the first place that came to mind.  At the time, we decided to move here because of the school system, safety, and proximity to my parents.  But I wonder if there was something deeper in my soul that was just crying to come home.

The other day I went for a walk and my mom's house was in the middle of my route so I dropped in for a pit stop.  She was in the kitchen putting tulips from her garden in a vase and my dad was out at the grocery store, one of his favorite pastimes (seriously, he loves grocery shopping).   And the house was freezing as it always is, and my mom had one of her favorite songs on forever repeat playing in the kitchen.  She was waiting on my dad who was sure to return with at least four bagfuls of groceries even though my mom probably only asked him to get three things.  There was something so ordinary and nostalgic about their Sunday afternoon, and it was comforting to know that some things never change.

My mom and I sat down to talk at the kitchen table and though I've been to their house countless times since we've moved back, it felt like coming home.  I felt like it was just me and my mom sitting together.  I wasn't a mother trying to balance work and three kids... I wasn't super nurse... I was just her daughter in that moment - nothing more.  And there wasn't anyone around that I needed to brave and strong for.  I didn't need to protect my children from the sadness surrounding us.  I didn't need to be tough and determined.  I could take my eyes off the prize for the moment and just be.

When I let myself be, I was sad and tired; worn thin from the effort of starting over the past two years and disappointed that this is where my life is today.  I'm not really good at sharing that part of myself with many people.  There's something so protective and almost feral that guards that vulnerable piece of my soul.  But sitting there in the presence of my mom, surrounded by all these memories and moments that I call home, I felt safe and able to show her my broken heart.  And a little of that grief that I hold so close to my heart spilled out as I laid my head on her kitchen table.  Even though I know her own heart was breaking watching me cry, I could feel her collecting my grief; picking it up like little tiny treasures and storing it in her own heart for safe keeping like only a mother can.  It was if she knew that in some way, my grief was a precious gift and she accepted it with reverence and love.

How good it was to come home and rest in my mother's love for a while.  How good it was to be known by my mom.  It was just what my soul needed.  As I returned back to my own home I could feel my determination returning, as if letting go of a little bit of grief had made room in my heart for wholeness and strength, the kind only a mother can give.
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