I moved to Florida many years ago, a spiritually and otherwise immature woman who thought that moving to a sunnier climate would improve my then depressed and sometimes selfish disposition. At twenty nine years of age, I still wasn't sure what I wanted in life; when we arrive at the point where we have no idea what direction to take and no real guidance with regard to making the more difficult life decisions (such as what, exactly, we were placed on this earth to do) running away will often appear to be the most attractive choice. And so, amidst great protest from various friends and family members and predictions made by my beloved Grandmother that I'd miss home and would return at some point, my partner and I loaded up the UHaul and drove away from Boston. Why is it that my Grandmother's predictions always seem to bear a great deal of truth? She was correct that I would eventually miss home and long to return. That I actually would move back remains to be seen but I find myself wishing long, hard and often that this would come to pass, that some great miracle would create a hole in reality making this wish a possible reality. Recently, I read a blog post by a woman who travels a great deal and enjoys the life of a wanderer. Her remedy for homesickness is to completely immerse one's self in the surroundings in which we find our bodies, to take in and love completely where we are. The problem for me is that while this solution has worked in the past, these days I'm too aware of the reality around me. I love the few good friends I've made here, I adore our home, I love our life together in our little family unit, but Florida itself leaves me sorely wanting.
I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I feel God's grace in my life now more than ever before, and recently I took Ann Voskamp's challenge to find 1000 gifts by writing a gift/gratitude list. Each day I find a multitude of blessings to add to that list of gifts from God and each night I read over what I've written and feel warmed by His love, aware of the many graces that washed over me in the hours now behind. I marvel at the fact that He took so much effort to bring me back to Him, years of allowing me to search the hallways of various religious houses, all the while working in my life to lead me slowly back down the hallway of my youth. I'm baffled by the way this happened, at the way my heart was suddenly open to reading the blog of a born again Christian Evangelist (Ann's own description of herself), at how my friends from High School were suddenly on their computers encouraging me forward. I'd feared rejection when I told one of said friends where I'd been, but she gently moved me forward, guiding me toward books that might help me to grow stronger in my rediscovered faith, words that encouraged rather than ones that berated. Berating words seldom help. What a blessing that she knew this and didn't say anything that would turn me back around. We returnees can be quite fragile in a spiritual sense. Some days the idea of going back to my old spiritual wandering feels familiar and comfortable and I need to work hard to keep my feet where they are. I don't have any true desire to get lost again, but the lure of other ways can be strong. That said, only the Word nourishes me so fully, so deeply. His words are the sweetest.
Anyway...the desire in my heart to return home to New England is powerful. I miss my family. I long for the old streets of Concord, the woods of Henry David Thoreau, Boston's old cobblestone streets (as well as the more modern places), gargoyles staring down at me from the lofty heights of old buildings downtown. I pine for the rolling hills of New England, the mountainous places that so captured my heart when I was younger, the roads I spent years traveling to reach various places. I miss the Irish names and the accent that actors in movies always seem to butcher when they try to emulate us. I want my daughter to grow up knowing my mother better, and I want to raise her in a place different from where we live now. Our home is beautiful; it rests toward the end of a dead end street, with a huge tree standing at the end of our driveway. South Florida, however, is rife with crime, drugs, pedophiles and other sex offenders. Our schools (please forgive me, but this is my sincere opinion and one backed by many of my friends and acquaintances) are terrible. The lifestyle here caters largely to boaters (I'm not even that fond of the water) and beachers (I have sun allergies that only seem to manifest here, where the sun is unbearably oppressive), and party types. In my hometown, one needed to drive far to find a place like a strip joint. Here, all one needs to do is drive a few miles up the street, and then a few more miles after that to find another one. I've heard young women talking about working in these places as if stripping was a normal profession. I've also spoken with women who bear the emotional and mental scars of engaging in this type of work. It isn't pretty and, in spite of what some people claim, it isn't empowering. As I sit in my kitchen typing this, a crew of scary looking people wanders up the road, heading toward a halfway house located at the farthest end of the street. They have the hollowed out appearance of zombies, eyes vacant, feet shuffling just a bit. I feel sad that they're sick, but also just a bit frightened that people who aren't well mentally are living in such close proximity to our children, who run back and forth between our houses. We watch our children well, but it takes but a quick moment for someone to snatch a child up, and some days I'm frustrated that a Florida Sex Offender search brings up hundred and hundreds of offenders in our immediate area, many charged with harming children. There's something about Florida that attracts people like this, and transients and people who like to swing. I want to go home.
And yet....I know I'm here right now for a reason. Our neighbors on one side were largely responsible for attracting me back toward Christianity by showing me the peace it brings to their own lives. Our children play together, and their support of my husband and I homeschooling our daughter (they homeschool through their church) has provided me with much needed encouragement. Another sweet little girl lives on the other side of us, and she and my little one play as well; they're close in age and enjoy similar interests. A dear friend of mine is struggling with addiction, and she and I have been sharing time together, talking about the disease of alcoholism and drug addiction, sharing hope, reminding one another about the importance of staying spiritually fit and of discovering the joy in every day, even when it tries to hide itself. I know my friend, who has spent years battling this demon, does not have many more fights left in her. If I can help walk her back toward a place of sustained sobriety, if I can be one person of a few with whom she can relate and confide in and share her own experiences with (because we all help each other-none of us stands above), this is a gift valuable beyond all of the treasures lying beneath the waves of our Florida oceans. Within our hearts reside jewels to beat the glory of any Spanish galleons, and God wants us to share that treasure with others. We aren't given these valuables to hoard, but to spread around. The struggles I've walked (and crawled, and stumbled) through exist in my memory to help others walk through their own difficulties. The words I read and the clarities I achieve and the epiphanies that help me make it through another day here on earth are given to me not just for me but for the other person who needs to hear those truths.
And so.....I paste pictures on my vision board, pictures of New England vistas, lakes, mountains, farmland, thick woodlands, pumpkin patches and autumn foliage, urban scenes of the downtown streets I used to wander, Cape Cod beaches (I can almost smell the salty, marshy air so unique to that area of the country) and I wonder if we'll ever go back there to stay. I still talk with God about it and I know He knows how I feel, grateful but tired, grateful but still full of a longing that isn't being willed away. I often think He must be tired of listening to me. And today, I'm trying to do my part, to take up the work I'm called to do over these next few hours, and, I hope, to do that work gratefully, gladly, and wholly.
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