I am driving home after a lengthy stay with my son. Leaving his house, I have very mixed emotions. I am feeling that (I am dropping you off for college, I don’t know when I will see you again, you are smart and capable but my life’s mission is to make sure you are okay) feeling of emptiness thing that happens every time your adult children leave you or you leave them.

I drive away and spend the next hour reminiscing and fretting as only a mother can. The hour after that, I distract myself with road-trip karaoke (and yes, I am still a small town girl living in a lonely world). In the next hour, I stop at the world’s coolest vintage store. I find countless garments from 1940 to the present to hold in front of the mirror. Curvy girls had it bad in the 1950’s as everything was made to fit like a combat wetsuit (tight and stiff) …except for floppy house dresses (grandma, suddenly I understand).Retail therapy complete, I start the last leg of the journey home.

Because I am thinking of house dresses, I obviously think of grandma. When I was a teenager, my grandmother who could no longer care for herself went to stay with my aunt a few hours away. When I went to visit, she begged us to take her home to her own house just to spend the night. I didn’t get it. We were going to drive almost two hours, spend the night and return. That would leave us with a two hour drive back again to our hometown after we dropped her off. It was already late in the evening, but I worshipped my grandmother and couldn’t have refused her. Off we went into the night.

Each road sign we passed she would smile and say hallelujah. Each town that we encountered would bring a song of praise. “Lodi! Thank you Jesus! Cold Water! Praise the Lord! I’m going home! God is good!” I smiled at her happiness and enthusiasm. I didn’t really get it.

But as I drive these roads home and think of that day, I understand. There is the field with the camels, I’m one step closer home. There is the town with the antiques and homemade bread where we while away the Saturdays, I’m getting closer. Here is the town where my husband’s grandparents are buried so I’m almost there. Crossing the railroad tracks means I am minutes from where we have built a life. I am seconds from my husband, Praise the Lord!

It is just like me to not want to leave one place, yet can’t wait to get to another. But I understand, Grandma’s joy of coming home. Except for me, home is wherever my children are, where my husband is, where my parents and siblings reside. Fortunately or unfortunately they are scattered across the country. Coming home rarely means everyone is in one place. I will have to be content with my heart being scattered.

My husband teases me when we travel in the area surrounding my hometown. It usually starts when I get a big goofy grin as the hills come into view. I remind him I’m a hillbilly girl. I say, “have I ever told you how much I love pine trees?” Some days I even roll down the windows to smell the forest. What he doesn’t know is that in my head where only I can hear I am singing “Lodi, Praise the Lord. Cherokee Pass, thank you Jesus! Lake Killarney, God is good!” Home is anywhere my people are….but the forest, my forest, the hills where I grew up speak to my soul.

Unto the hills I will lift up my eyes…….