We’re home. Home, that’s such a nice word; and yet, a year ago I could hardly bring myself to apply it to my little place in Texas. When I flew over the rugged landscape of brown checked fields and dusty plains I remember writing down in my journal that nothing of this barren place draws me, except the man I love. For months I could feel the dry air and lack of vibrance seeping in and soaking up the damp, rich soil of my heart that I was once accustomed to growing in back East.
People told me I’d learn to love the beauty here, and at first I couldn’t believe it – almost didn’t want to. But through my months of living and growing and changing here I’ve felt the draw. When returning from another state and crossing over the line to Texas, I’ve been greeted with a sort of swell of pride, seeing the stars, the state emblem everywhere, the flags unashamedly adorning yards, businesses and schools. When trekking the plains, then coming suddenly to the Caprock drop off, where red cliffs and sharp canyons jut in deep crevices; seeing the subtle greens of gnarled bushes and cacti stubbornly push their way from craggy rocks into the sunlight…when the brash sun hovers deep in the horizon, crafting its last rays in bold sweeps of fiery brilliance across a giant sky…when all that is harsh and tired and wind-worn in the day is wrapped in dying day’s last hues and it seems much more wildly brave and beautiful, I cannot help but acknowledge another thread of love being woven in my heart for this place.
Home. It’s where you make it, and it where you nurture it, making memories, sprouting traditions and realizing golden moments that have just been born. Sunday night my husband held our baby girl and me in his arms moving slowly across the floor to George Strait’s “What Do You Say To That”. Around the house were remnants of our Valentine’s Day love notes, flowers and a warmth of completeness that hung in the air. A few tears blended into his cotton shirt, and he kissed my head. Both of us grinned over our baby, who was touching our cheeks in turn, with wondering eyes and a very runny nose.
Mama likes to remind me that you can’t wait for “Normal” to live life because life is never Normal. It’s never perfect. But you can celebrate it wherever you are, whatever shortcomings, whatever imperfections you’re dealing with. Because in the middle of all our mess and imperfection, beautiful moments can be born and held and cherished and stowed away for life. So, to my Week Home, I’ll be glad I’m here, no matter how many things don’t get checked off my To Do List. There might just be more important things to do than checking off all those things anyway.
Have a beautiful week!