and yet where is home when your heart is torn in two?
I am home. There is no question about that. Being home with Mom and Dad is possibly the most healing thing that I can do for myself right now. It's good to be with them, and not be alone at night, to take a break from the constant worry of daily life.
There is a joy in riding down the country roads with Dad in his pick-up truck, windows open, talking enough, but mostly just being in each other's company, listening to the radio and occasionally singing along to the same songs. Working with him to unload the branches from the truck and trailer and listening to his plans for the next house projects and knowing that I will be able to work with him on those too.
There is a joy in sitting in church with Dad and listening to Mom give a worship service and to be in the presence of those people who have been praying so much for me and the kids and who continue to pray. To be able to say that I'm looking for a job and hear someone say that they will keep their eye out for something. To be fully welcomed in a community as one of their own is an indescribable feeling.
There is something about this land as well. Something that calls me home here. It's not my mountains where I really long to be, but there is a freshness here. This open land dotted with fields and houses, horses and the occasional oil well. The open road that connects the farms to the small towns and then to the larger communities. The same open road that you could follow and in no time end up in another state. The star-studded night sky that is an amazing sight to behold, when it's not cloudy. I feel a peace in this land.
But only half of my heart is here, the other half is still in Florida. There is a constant nagging sadness, and no matter how happy and at peace I will feel here, that sadness will not go away. I miss my babies. I long to hug them and hold them. I look at their pictures constantly. And yet, I know that I must face this difficult time in order to discover the sweet rewards on the other side.
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