Homecoming is Always the Hardest Bit

Last Sunday, I hugged a family goodbye, took a cab, a bus, and a plane by myself, and then ended up in the arms of another family: my own. Gifts were spread all around, stories swapped, and pictures shown. I woke up the next morning at 2:30, and edited, drank coffee, went running, signed up for a magazine or two, and took a shower. We did strawberries and it was glorious, and three delicious pies later, us kids want to go pick some more strawberries. I've watched quite a few movies, gone shopping, eaten almost an entire wedge of brie cheese, and worked three times since Tuesday. My boss welcomed me back with opened arms (literally), and asked me to stay an extra hour and a half to make pizzas and catch up with him. I've never gotten to do that before, and getting to be there with him and his family and just hear about their month made it the best shift I've ever had. Today we have a Fourth of July bash planned, and I have yet to mention our impending adventure next week. 

And yet, it's still there.

Like an imprint on my mind, one that I just can't shake. 

Last week wasn't like this. 

Last week was a different life, a different world, a different rhythm. 

Every morning since I left, I have heard the echo of Miranda's laugh when I wake up in the morning. There are no morning morning kisses and musli, nor Miranda Pandas, nor Ellie Pandas. There are no mornings spent lying on the ground, watching the clouds and talking to a two-year-old 'mommy'. Every mealtime I suddenly remember that there are no more dinner parties. No more tarts, no more camembert pasta, no more rhubarb desserts. There is no longer an opportunity to meet and get attached to a congregation after only two weeks. There are no more hugs from strangers and I can't dig for buried treasure with Logan anymore. No matter what happens here, there aren't going to be the moments of pure joy that I had while I was with Jonathan and Rachel. I will never get to have those deep conversations with them at eleven o'clock at night, and I won't get to go adventuring through the English countryside in Gustavus Adolphus any longer. We won't get Chinese take out and half-pints of beer anymore. Jonathan can't give me any more fascinating history lectures, and Rachel and I can't discuss cheeses and the art of baking anymore. There are never going to be any more evenings singing hymns with Miranda on my lap. No more bedtimes with goodnight kisses and hearing "I love you so" from Miss Miranda. No more monitor duty so that Jonathan and Rachel can go on walks. No more jokes about baby names and English midwives, and no more late night Skype sessions with friends and family. All of it is gone.

And it hurts. It really does. I don't miss the country, I really don't. I miss the family, the congregation, the memories that I got to make with a different world of acquaintances. The country wouldn't hold any leverage over me if these people hadn't been there to make it come alive. No matter how we say that email, Skype, even letters make distance seem much less problematic, those things can't replace the everyday things that I miss so much. I can't talk to this family, interact with them, live with them, on an everyday basis anymore. 

But, boy, do I wish I could.