It feels like a loaded question when acquaintances ask the benign: “So where are you from?” We’re living in this college town with a lot of other transplanted beings whose roots hurt as much as ours, or probably a lot more. My root system has been waiting to unfurl for years, bound up in wet burlap, hoping that my place would be obvious. For seasons, I was allowed to be home while abroad but the most recent months were spent in emotional and geographic turmoil, when we left what we thought would always be.
The houses are too many to count. The countries are fewer but none became home all the way, down to the toes. The one with the most promise left us bruised and broken, not by life or local friends but by other expatriates. It is bewildering to find yourself homeless while far from home. At a certain point while shuffling belongings into trunks and children into new beds week by week, the terms become meaningless.
And suddenly where we least expected it, we find ourselves unfurling into a life we never could have imagined. A life in America. The challenge is to make ourselves at home, to live the life that is, rather than the one we had always dreamed. Praying over tender roots still unsure that they were meant to live in soil, unaware that the burlap was just the transition.
Writing with Five Minute Friday at http://lisajobaker.com/2013/03/five-minute-friday-home-2/