Last evening, around 6:30, Jameson and I rolled into the little town of Madrid. (Thanks, Dad, a million times over. I mean, really. What a dad.)

I have no pictures of our last 48 hours spent with my family, because, well, things are busy here on weekends. Busy and crazy and loud and populated and coming and going and yummy and chatty and candlelit. Phew!

So no. No pictures. I’ve barely had the time to dig proper church clothes out of my bags — forget about finding a camera!

But I have had time to hug Louissa like I hadn’t seen her in 9 months (I hadn’t), squeeze all of my other sisters like I hadn’t seen them in 9 months (it’s only been 3), hug my brother and think how ridiculously handsome he is, and of course, squeeze my mom like she is the most wonderful woman in the world (she is).

(Oh — and hugs to my dear father and totally fabulous littlest brother were doled out the evening prior when they came all the way to Maine to retrieve me.)

We had a delicious bean soup last night that I’ll never know how to make, because the truth is, my mother doesn’t even know how she made it (but I’ll try!), with warm-from-the-oven pumpkin bread. And candles. *sigh*

This morning we got ready for church. I got to be a part of the hustle and bustle — something I missed the last few years at home, since I was always long gone to prep for worship before most of the house was even awake.

I got to see people I love — so many people. I sang songs that I knew. I was in a room full of people who pray for the same baby I pray for. I knew the nursery workers. (Jameson did not, and did not approve of me leaving him there. Oh well!) I heard a sermon about the Word, preached by my favorite preacher. I set up dinner dates and coffee dates and visits here and there.

I’m so thankful for this opportunity to be here, just to touch base, you know? It’s awfully nice.

Different — different to be here in Madrid and know that it’s not home. To be at CFC and know that it’s not home. To be visiting. How long do you have to be away before it feels normal to be a visitor in your hometown? Longer than 3 months, I guess.

So yes, I’m here in Madrid. And the only bummer is that my husband is about 2,905 miles away…and I miss him.

3 Comments update

  1. lore

    I’m not sure it ever feels normal to be a visitor in your hometown. At least not for me, and I guess not for you. I’m pretty sure that’s the way we know how to expect heaven–it feels like home, no matter how far away it is.

    As we drove through Potsdam yesterday I said to no one in particular “there’s no other place on earth I’d rather live than here, I’d be happy to be anywhere, but here is home.” And it’s true.

    I love you! I love knowing you’re home. Less than a mile from where I spend my days. Mmmmm. . .

  2. Abby

    I remember going back to Pittsburgh about a year after we were married. On the way home (to Potsdam) it hit me… I actually felt like I was going home. I didn’t feel like I was leaving home in the same way. When I was at Word & Worship, I suddenly realized that I didn’t feel like it was the more comfortable church to be at. It was surprising and quite pleasant to realize that Potsdam and CFC felt like home. So, if your experience is anything like mine, you only have about 9 more months to go! ;-) Enjoy every minute of your visit. Cram in lots of visits and conversations to be replayed in your mind in the days to come!


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