I am not the only person in the world who responds to the question, “Where is home to you?” with a grimace and a long exhale. In fact, my answer is much simpler than a lot of people’s. Even so, many friends have been surprised by my apparent inability to answer that question simply, and even more so by my occasional lack of desire to even try. Others have tried to help me out by generously assuming to know the answer: “It must be Kenya, right? I mean that’s where you grew up.”; “You were born in the States, went to college in the States and have always lived with an American family. America will always be home…right?”; “You have made your home in North Africa with your husband” or “Your parents live in Tanzania. Going to see them must be like going home.” The truth of the matter is none of these places will ever exclusively encompass every aspect of that deeply warm and completely comfortable word. Each and every place holds a different piece of the beautiful puzzle that is home to me.
That being said, this Christmas, I am really enjoying this particular piece of the puzzle.
Bryan and I dropped out dusty packs in a puddle of Christmas lights a few days ago after weeks of whirlwind travel across three international borders, five airports and a dozen government offices. Before this week I had spent only one night in this house my parents now live in. The dogs in the yard are unfamiliar and I haven’t learned the trick to the hot water in the guest room shower. I don’t know which shelves to put the clean dishes in yet. But somehow, this unfamiliar house feels like home. I know the old Lamu chest in the living room well and could pull out of it albums full of pictures of us from Christmases gone by – hair mussed as we smile gap-toothed in our Mickey Mouse pajamas ensconced in piles of shredded wrapping paper. I know the rough feel of the worn Ethiopian carpet even though it is now relegated to wall-hanging status; it allows patches of wall to peek through the bare spots from years of wrestling with Papa after supper. The little brass gecko from Thailand still perches on the wall behind the Christmas tree, perpetually waiting for a mosquito to come just a little bit closer. Book shelves full of Penguin Classics expose me shamelessly. “The Prison of Zenda” and “Jane Eyre” lean their tattered backs against each other; “Ivanhoe” and “War and Peace” incriminate me with their only half worn spines. Like the sibling you will lovingly squabble with by day three no matter how old you are or how long you have been apart, my allergies have flared up as I inhale in dust, pollen and perfume these familiar things have collected and carried with them from house to house over the years. I am breathing home.
When pressed to answer this question I find so difficult, I often truthfully resort to a tired cliché. Home is where my family is. Which means with Bryan, Mama and Papa, Abigail and Baby all here with me this Christmas, I am home. I am with the people I love the most in the world and am so grateful. But some of the people I love most are not here. Deborah and Joshua, I am missing you today more than I think I ever have. A piece of the puzzle is still missing.
For those of you savoring the bittersweet beauty of an incomplete and ever-changing puzzle this Christmas, as well as those of you reveling in the joy of the whole picture, merry, merry Christmas! May you enjoy the rich sweetness of home.
