“Was it hard, moving away from your family?” they ask. “Weren’t you homesick?”
I always smile as I shake my head.
I’d been homesick for him for so long that I couldn’t be homesick when we were finally making a home together.
Yes, there were the adjustments of a new town, a new job, finding a new church. And it wasn’t always easy—especially when my new husband landed in the hospital two months after we got married. But I was facing each challenge and change at the side of the man I loved; I knew I was where I belonged.
“There where my heart has settled long ago…
there with my love, I’m home.”
(“Far from the Home I Love” from “Fiddler on the Roof”)
It’s been seven years now since I got married and moved here.
Now I’m more used to the speed limits and tax rates here than where I grew up (even if I still can’t give you directions to get anywhere, there or here!). When I say “our church” it means the church we attend, not the one where I was baptized (even if I’ll forever identify myself as a Baptist). “Home” means the house he built, rather than the one I grew up in (even though home is wherever he is).
It may have taken seven years, but now there are more familiar faces on the streets here than when I go back to visit my family. It’s the people at work and farmers market and church and mom’s group that make up my local community. It’s more than just the knowledge that I belong; it’s the sense of belonging.
P.S. Don’t miss my sister Jessica’s Five-Minute Friday post, on Haiti and where she truly belongs.