Going Home

We are back in Oklahoma City this weekend for the Computer Guy’s Grandmother’s 90th birthday.  On Friday we drove over to our old house and walked through it (the tenants have recently moved out).  I was prepared to sit down this morning and write about how you really can’t go home again. 

The house which had seemed so roomy last year seemed too small for us now.  The things I remembered fondly about it, such as the amazing skylight in the kitchen, were still there, but I had forgotten the things I hated such as the bug infestation every fall from the tree in the back yard.  It was as I swept up dozens of those dead and dying insects that I sadly realized that it’s not home any longer. 

The kitchen is now a khaki color we had no part in choosing.  The flower beds are blooming with plants we didn’t pick. The house doesn’t smell right, it’s a weird combo of cleaners, disinfectants, and the old tenants’ dog.  We walked through the front door and I immediately knew that it was no longer the haven we had loved.

Our new house in Texas isn’t home either.  We are renting it, and the idea that it belongs to someone else is always in the back of my mind.  It’s not a floor plan or a plan which we would have chosen.  It’s a house which was large enough to work for our family until we sold the Oklahoma house and could decide if we wanted to build or buy in Dallas.  The OKC house is still ours a year plus a bit later, which means we haven’t been able to make any decisions our where to live in Texas.

Off and on all weekend, the thought has flashed through my mind about the fact that we’re a bit homeless.  We don’t really seem to belong anywhere. 

We didn’t until this morning when we walked into Mass.

As we walked through the grand double doors of our Oklahoma parish, we were greeted by familiar faces and delighted smiles.  Welcoming arms opened to embrace us.  Our family was greeted by name.  We were no longer the anonymous people we are at our giant parish in Dallas, we were a part of the family, well-loved and much-missed.

Our priest was thrilled to see us, and quickly enlisted #2 to serve in this morning’s Mass.  My son beamed to find himself once more serving at the altar instead of merely on the waiting list to someday be allowed to serve.  The bongos we have tried to become accustomed to in Texas were replaced with the familiar organ and traditional hymns.  All around us were people we know well who patted our arms or backs and welcomed us home.  And for the first time in a year, we were.

It was sitting in our pew this morning that I wished fervently to be able to live in Dallas and go to Mass in Oklahoma.  It’s only a 3 hour drive, that’s not too bad….is it? 

I keep resolving to make Dallas feel like home, but haven’t been sure where to start.  How silly of me.  Of course the place I’d feel like home should be my Father’s house.  We need to start there to find the family we’ve been missing.  Surely there are people there who want to find friendly faces in pews.  I’m certain that there must be welcoming smiles and kind words.  There must be.  We just haven’t `made enough of an effort to find them yet.  That changes on Tuesday when we get back into town.  We’ve got to find home, and I’m going to lead the expedition.