When we pulled away from our home in Salt Lake City, I mourned the mountains. I touched the walls of a 100-year-old home we’d called our own then hopped in our van to move west, back home to the southern California suburbs. We had made a space for ourselves in the city — we would walk to the grocery store and to the park, wave to neighbors from our front porch, ski with friends and university students, and we’d worship with other committed believers who were all from elsewhere too. What would it look like to go back home?
In our sixteen years of marriage, my husband and I have moved eight times, including a move across state lines and overseas. For two people who grew up in the same houses that we were each brought to from the hospital, it’s odd that we grew used to being nomadic. We were used to what initially felt like the glitz and glamour of getting to know a new gorgeous landscape, new cities, and neighborhoods.
But while my husband was excited about the next challenge, I was mourning my losses: a best friend, weather with seasons, and a place where we solidly knew who we were and what we were doing. It would take courage to stay put in our hometown.
Photo Credit: Unsplash/Matheus Ferrero