Would you believe it. We totally lived through the last two weeks. I’m not exactly sure why I felt like it was going to be the end of everything, but I really did kiss Matt goodbye all the way back in June with a heavy pall of fatalism hanging about my subconscious. Every time we arrived to the next point intact I always felt a tiny bit surprised.
So why do it? Why drive something like 4000 miles, not counting the trip to Texas for the Usual Holiday? Why shove in an out of the car for one or two night stays? Why by-pass every notable place of interest that might have delighted and soothed the harried soul? Well, because, I live way over here in The East, in the settled ancient hills of the old rust belt. I am not an exile, in the biblical sense, but it always feels like it. I’m not from here. I’m from some other places, one of them being The West.
The thing about being from other places is that every time you start to settle in and arrange your mental furniture around the idea of being from somewhere, or even just staying there a good long while, all the other places that have belonged to you rise up sing a plaintive song.
When I think of the places I feel like I’m from, I always stand, in my mind, looking out the kitchen window. The way the place looks is so essential–the arrangement of hills and valleys, of streets and shops. When I’m over here in February, indulging in tragic homesickness, the stunning vista is all I think about. But a longed after landscape is only a quarter of the story. But it’s more about the people. I always thought I could live all the way over here, far from all my family, because my Great Aunt was right there in New Jersey, a mere three hours door to door. It’s not like I went to visit her all that often, but her being there conferred reasonableness on my living here. So, when she very wretchedly died and went to her true home (because this is really what it’s all about–this broken earth not being my true home) I was pretty desolate.
So, I gathered the children, and my mother, and we struck out to see some of the essential people I always miss so much. The landscapes swept by and I assiduously did not give way to their alluring calls. No Oregon Coast. No Redwood Forest. No Multnomah Falls. Not even driving by the old Corbett House. Just steadily on to the next living room full of people.
Which brings me to today. We had to get back here by today because at 2 o’clock we’re going to go sign piles and piles of paper for the purchase of a large, rambling, old house. We’ve never bought a house before. The permanence of such an action, frankly, terrifies me. I am not, to beat the horse dead, from here. Plus, as we all know, the whole place is promised to go up in a ball of fire when Jesus returns. So how could this possibly be a wise and good thing to do?
On the other hand, how could it not be? When God sent the people of Israel to Babylon, he told them to settle down and plant some vines and get used to it. He didn’t mean to them to live in makeshift sorrow for seventy years. He wanted them to get on with the business of living. And so that’s what we’re doing. We need more room because of having all these children. And I, well, I’m pretty happy about the view from the attic window. It looks out over a sweep of hills. It may not be Mt. Hood, or the Willamette River, or a Malian Road, but for the time being, it’s going to be satisfying enough to call home.
.
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In