Vagabond

I am grieving. No, no one has died. Nothing tangibly tragic has occured to cause me to grieve, no, I am grieving the loss of a sense of place in my life. It is strange to grieve the loss of a place, and not the loss of a person or thing. In America, we seem to have grown out of a need for a sense of place. Because of the ease of travel and instant communication over long distances, families disperse like chaff in the wind as soon as they're old enough to leave the nest. There is also an emphasis on non-traditionalism, newness, the excellencies of change. We want a change of scenery, a change of situation. We are quick to separate from the past, assert ourselves over history. We are different! We will move on!

My family had moving down to a science. I am grieving the years we spent wandering the country. I bottled up my anger and hatred of moving and I stuffed it down inside. Every time we moved, I put on a strong and happy face, but inwardly, I cringed and whithered inside, waiting for the tears to fall when I was alone in my room packing boxes with my memories. I survived. I learned how to meet people quickly and adapt in ever changing, completely foreign situations. I saw new and unusual things, explored each new state and town with my family. At least I had my family. I have loving parents and siblings who are my dearest friends.

But I am grieving the loss of a sense of place. Do I feel at home in Arizona, in the desert surrounded by mountains and under a sun that feels like an interrogation lamp searing any sense of orientation from my brain? Do I feel at home in Missouri, the land green, the air thick with humidity, the rivers swollen like contented bellies with water that flows clear and blue? Do I feel at home in South Carolina or New JErsey? New York? Seattle? California? Virginia? Or any other place I have lived in or visited for any length of time?

My mom reminded me that as a Christian, our true home is in Heaven and we will never feel completely "at home" anywhere in this world. While I understand the implications of that idea, I am not willing to accept that there is nowhere in this world that I can settle in for the time being. I know many people who have found places they love and lived in the same house or town for thirty, or fifty years. The concept is ridiculously foreign to me, but I hope to experience it for my own life. At least while I am alive and on this earth, I long for a sense of place. The nomadic life is not appealing. I have tried it for twenty-five years. Now I want to find a place that feels like home, where I can live and learn, growing accustomed to the weather and the tides, the people, building memories upon memories in every square inch of a place. I still desire to travel and see the world, but I want a place in which I can look forward to returning and resting.

I had a taste of a place like this in the house my paternal grandparents lived in and where we had family reunions every summer, so I know it is possible. I have this desire to find a sense of place, so I know the nomadic tendency, although it may be inherited, is not fixed irrevocably in my blood. When I approach this subject with the Lord, He reminds me of Psalm 37:4 which says, "Delight yourself in the Lord and he shall give you the desires of your heart." Finding a place to call home is a desire of my heart.