It wasn’t supposed to be a fun trip. It was supposed to be a trip to support one of my best friends as her brother is gravely ill. And then the unexpected happen. All of us, the group that has known each other since we were 12, the group who that has been through everything together, got back together.
And there we all were, laughing, talking, drinking, crying, eating and loving each other. Ad in that instant I knew that I would never be without family again. These people, who have loved me through all the stupid things, are my people. And I am theirs. In that moment I knew that no matter where I am, I will never be alone.
And there is such a beauty and grace in this realization, as the next chapter of life unfolds.
So many times we hear that you cannot go home, but in fact you can. Many times home, those places you know like the back of your hand, and those people who know you are the ones who become your heart. And there is tremendous comfort in that which is familiar.
And after dinner with my friends, I got up the next morning and went to church in my own home parish. My spiritual home, where I grew up, the first place I found true friends, love and drank communion wine (on a dare). It was the place where my parents had their memorial services. It is where my Mom worked hard and created beautiful gardens for everyone. And in one of those gardens was my “thinking swing.” I spent countless night in that swing, sometimes all night, swinging and thinking, planning and dreaming about life.
My hometown. Where I grew up, a place where the people know my heart, they are my heart. And isn’t that the thing about life? We all have a history, we all have a past. We all have those who know us inside and out, before we became adults and learned about walls and masks and being politically correct. We all have places where we know the roads, and the roads know us. We all have those places that make us smile. We all have a place where we grew up. We all have those places that refill our souls and remind us of who we are.