Pilgrims

"Where we love is home-- home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts."

--Oliver Wendell Holmes

"Oh, okay. Is that close to..." he struggled to find a word and finally finished his sentence, "...close to where you live?"
I sort of laughed and hated to do it, but needed to ask a follow-up question, "Close to where I live when?" My thoughts continued on this track for sometime, slightly unaware of his reply. Close to me when I lived in Colombia? In Illinois? Even that one could be broken down... close to me when I lived in Champaign at university or near my grandparents in the suburbs? I noticed his lack of word for home. I barely knew this guy and I felt slightly uneasy by the fact that he avoided using that H-word with me... about me. Was my "nomadic" instinct that obvious? Do these "rooted" people have an uncanny ability to sense those of us who aren't "rooted"... those of us who have become Third Culture Kid Adults (TCKa)?

My heart desires a home. It really does. I thirst for that place where everything feels familiar. I crave a place where the people and faces are consistent... where time seems to leave us relatively untouched. I want to go home on holidays and see the majority of my friends. I want to crawl into bed in a bedroom that has my handwriting scribbled on a wall from when I was eight and felt like writing "I was here." I want to see my growth marks up the back of my door in that home. I want to buy one plane ticket and see them all. I want those I love most in one place at least once.

And I'm constantly told that this is simply part of growing up. And I hate being told that. Yes, I understand that when people grow up, they leave home and the people they love leave home and then suddenly, they begin to deal with this sudden constant long-distance life. I get that. I guess I hate that I had to grow up sooner... earlier than most. While many begin to feel the pain of long-distance friendships during university and upon graduation, I can't remember a time when I didn't miss someone. Apparently, TCKs go through more major transitions before the time they're 18 than most people do in a lifetime. We've met too many people and said too many goodbyes before we've truly left our nest.

I often hear, "How do you know someone in __________?" and sometimes I begin to explain. But then I realize that the explanation usually sounds something like, "Well... she's American, but she came to Colombia for two years and then she moved to _________" or "Well... we grew up in school together, but his mom is American and his dad is from Ecuador. He spent several years in the USA but then came back so we ended up graduating together. He started going to university in Nevada and then moved to Europe." And then I stop and look at the person I'm talking to and they seem to have no idea what I'm talking about. I lost them at "well..."Or I frequently get asked about the last time I saw so-and-so. Too often, my answer has the word "years" in it. Their eyebrows raise and their eyes widen. How are we still friends?

Sometimes I wonder... sometimes I really do.

How are we still friends? How have we managed to keep our friendship going after years of communicating solely through Facebook and Skype? Sometimes, it feels like we never left and we picked up where we left off... and other times, the stretch-marks of time are visible and we must learn how to become friends all over again. But we do. We manage.

It's so easy to get caught up wishing that I could hop into a car, drive home and see everyone. It's easy to compare... I see my other TCKa friends and I realize that I'm blessed to go home once or twice a year. Then, I see my American friends, and I can let a twinge of bitterness creep in. And it's so wrong. Comparison is the thief of joy. Instead of praising God for the amazing opportunities I've had because of my TCK upbringing, I found myself craving consistency.

Sometimes I simply assume that eventually I'll find that consistency... maybe when I get married and have a family of my own. Maybe when I buy a house and enroll kids in school. Maybe. I wonder, because I fight attachment; I crave depth and I often jump right into deep friendships, but simultaneously avoid attachment. I love and I give and I share, but always keeping the thought in the back of my mind that we probably won't be friends for life. I see that mentality so much in myself here at U of I. I know that I fight attachment here. After all, I was planning on simply coming here for four years and then being on my fine way just as soon. And now I'm almost two years in and realizing that maybe, just maybe I won't pull up these roots so quickly and cleanly. Instead, I'll have another push pin on my map of affections... another dot where I'll have to keep coming back to.

As a faithful Lord of the Rings fan, I must share a quote. Bilbo Baggins is explaining that he feels that he has aged though he doesn't "look" it. He says, "I feel like butter, spread out over too much bread." Oh, Bilbo. Can I ever relate... I feel like butter spread out over too many cities, too many states, too many countries, too many continents. Over too much.

Too many.

And this spread out feeling simply deepens a longing in me... a stronger desire comes out. I want that home and I want that consistency, but more than that... I find myself craving a heavenly homeland. I long for the day when I hear, "Welcome home," and won't ever have to say a single goodbye again. I earnestly yearn for that sense of belonging that can't be dislodged by the sickening and familiar routine of packing belongings into suitcases, of sterile airport goodbyes, of letters constantly signed with a sad "I miss you."

After all, we are just pilgrims... simply passing through this world... on our way home.