It’s Month Ten and home feels like a distant memory. I don’t remember what it feels like to wake up in my own bed, to make plans to meet my sister out for brunch, to drive my own car, what it sounds like for my phone to ring, or even to go somewhere without needing to stop and ask for directions. Since being gone this year I’ve come to realize that home is so much more than just a place or a person- it’s also a feeling. As I’ve physically traveled farther and farther from home as time has passed, I’ve only come closer and closer to finding it again. Let me try to explain. I left my physical home, my sister, my family, and my friends so long ago that I don’t remember what it felt like but along the way I’ve picked up little pieces of home. Moments and memories that I’ve collected along the way that felt like home, even though it’s been ten months and hundreds of thousands of miles since I’ve actually been there.
In Honduras, home came in the form of hospitality from strangers who turned into family. From the moment we arrived, the church welcomed us with open arms and allowed us to feel welcome in a country we’d never been to with people we’d never met.
In Nicaragua, I found home in the delicious homemade meals that were prepared for us daily and in swinging in hammocks that we’d strung up on our front porch.
It was found swimming in the ocean as the sun set and then walking across the street to get an ice cream cone while we were in Costa Rica.
My teammates were my home in Panama. From pancakes to movie nights to adventures. Photo shoots on the beach and digging dirt. Home was my Lunachicks.
Walking into a donut shop to find my teammates waiting with a dozen donuts and candles, wanting to celebrate the one-year mark of a milestone event in my life even though I’d forgotten is what brought home to me in Indonesia.
In Vietnam, it was found laughing in hysterics on the floor of our apartment with the cleaning lady and the maintenance man because even after 30 minutes of trying to communicate we still had absolutely no idea what the other was trying to say.
In our little hut of a front porch, laying in a hammock, listening to Sophea read me childrens books to practice his English is where I found a bit of home in Cambodia.
In Thailand, I found it at the end of our street by the bridge in a food cart where a man we called ‘Chill’ served us crepes at 10 PM.
I found home in Botswana through new friendships. Hearing Dipsy say, “Breezy on the track” as he arrived at school every morning and saw me is something I will surely miss for a long time.
In Swaziland, home came in the form of a swimming pool at our host’s home and in a missionary family that invited me into their home and their lives and invested in me and spent time with me.
Walking outside our little cabin in the mountains and picking fresh lavender to put on my pillow at night is what reminded me that I’d found yet another piece of home in Lesotho.
I’ve been away from home for ten months. I don’t remember exactly what “home” feels like. I’ve been able to find little pieces of home along the way. They aren’t always grand and often times, they have absolutely nothing in common with my real home but they’re mine. They’re the pieces that have allowed me to build my home- piece by piece, along the way.
