I looked down upon cornfields, neatly maintained subdivisions and the fast approaching Mississippi river. After a journey that took me around the world, I was almost there, I was almost home.
I can’t explain how I felt as I looked down on my home, Minnesota. It was a place I had fantasized about for months, a place I could barely remember. It was the place of my family, friends and comfort, it was home.
Excited.
Relieved.
Sad.
As the planes wheels hit that Minnesota tarmac I could barely surpass tears as I heard God whisper, “I promised I would bring you home, I promised you would once again hug your mom.”
Prior to leaving on the race, God promised me He would bring me home to once again hug the ones I loved.
There were many times I questioned this promise…
Walking through the red light district of downtown Manila on a Friday night
Surviving a typhoon
Being forced to hide in a Tibetan attic as the police searched our hotel room
All those LONG African bus rides
Being packed like sardines into too many different vehicles to count
Mozam-bleak.
Riding a Serbian race horse
Sleeping in a Polish homeless shelter
Muggings in the streets of Guatemala
All those days of sickness
And then even if I made it home, what if something happened to someone I loved while I was away?
Seeing the grief stricken face of my dear sister Wendy as she received the news that her mom had passed away unexpectedly.Comforting Shannon in that Swaziland bathroom as she told me her treasured uncle only had days to live.
Days later walking down that dirt road after she received the news that he had passed away.
Holding a funeral in our backyard orange grove.
Watching as the Brittons left for home, unsure whether her father would survive.
There were many moments of questioning throughout the past year but who was I to ever question God in the first place?
So there I was, feeling that Minnesota jet bridge under my feet. Rushing towards the exit to finally hug my mom.
Thoughts of all those international airports I had walked through crossed my mind. All those times I would longingly watch as families welcomed home loved ones and desperately wanting my homecoming. And here it was.
Here was my welcome home.
As I walked through the exit trumpets played. Did I expect anything less from a LaVigne family homecoming than a marching band?
And there were my friends, family and mom. Even my lovely SOUND sisters were present in the form of a large blown up picture taken on a Costa Rican beach days before.
Oh how nice it was to be home. To arrive at what Allen called “my just reward, completion.”
