Coming Home

I remember when I was a teenager my mom gave me a book called Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. It was the mid nineties, and the "Chicken Soup" book series had just taken off. There was a "chicken soup" book for just about any soul out there: Chicken Soup for the Soul at Work, Chicken Soup for the Parent's Soul, even Chicken Soup for the Dog and Cat Lover's Soul.  Each book consisted of a collection of short stories and personal essays.

I remember rolling my eyes at many of the "teenage" stories, finding them fairly cliche and trying not so subtly to teach me life lessons. Although, looking back,  I probably felt that way because I was fourteen years old and rolled my eyes at just about anything.  But I do remember one story very clearly. It was written by a girl who had just entered high school. She found herself lost amongst the hundreds of other students.  She was unsure of where she fit in, unsure of who she was becoming.

Until one day at lunch, she rediscovered her "kindergarten crew." Somehow, in the chaos of the cafeteria, a group of kids that she had gone to kindergarten with had formed their own lunch table, finding comfort in familiar faces, and free to be themselves with the people they shared a common history with. It felt like family at that table.  

I remember this story resonated strongly with me. My family moved from New Jersey to Pennsylvania when I was thirteen years old. It was only an hour move across state lines, but it might as well have been to the other side of the world. During some of the most difficult middle school years, when girls are just starting to figure out who they are,  I had to start over. No one knew who I was or where I had come from. And although it didn't take long to make new friends and start a new life, I always deeply missed my kindergarten crew. I remember going to sleepovers,  my friends talking late into the night, remembering that funny first grade teacher or who beat up who on the elementary playground. I was never able to join in those conversations. My memories with them only started at 7th grade.  And while I loved my new home, I always felt like an outsider, with a longing to reconnect with my own kindergarten crew.

It's always amazing to me how even our unspoken dreams matter to God. If you had asked me a few years ago if I wanted to move back to New Jersey, I would probably have shrugged and said no. Not because I didn't want to, but because I'd learned how to move on. Throughout our lives we all experience chapters. They don't last forever, but they are etched for eternity in our hearts. Moving from high school to college, and from college to a first job, getting married, having children. Time is always moving us forward. Rarely do we get a chance to go back.

But I have been given that chance. Right out of college, Ben took a job in New Jersey. After we got married he made the hour long commute from PA to NJ for over a year. But once we discovered I was pregnant with Abby, we both agreed it would make more sense to be close to his work since I would be staying home full time.  We looked at houses for months, starting our search in Delaware. But nothing felt like home.  We decided to try moving our search to New Jersey.  I remember walking into a realty office, and sitting down with a realtor who asked us where we wanted to focus our home search. I hadn't been back in New Jersey for 15 years. I had no idea where to look. The realtor told us to just "drive around" some areas and get back to him.

Ben and I walked out of the office, having no idea where to drive. So... we just started driving. I don't even remember where we ended up.  But "just driving around" wasn't getting us anywhere. So, I decided to take Ben to the one place that I knew how to get to.

Home.

The house I grew up in.  The house that welcomed my newborn brother and sister. The house where I learned to read, and ride a bike, and sit in the summer sunshine falling asleep as my mom read me The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  As we drove into the neighborhood, I suddenly realized that I was coming home. I turned to Ben, and he said, "I could see us living here."  I took him to all the places I had loved as a child. We drove past the soccer fields, the school playground, the houses my friends grew up in.  Some things had changed in 15 years, but it still felt like home.

Within two weeks we bought a house. It's right across the road from the house I grew up in. When people come over, I point across the street and say, "That's where I grew up."

Moving back, I had no idea what it would mean to me. But there is just something about taking my children to the library that I frequented as a little girl. Watching my daughter play on the same playground that I did. Taking walks through the same streets I rode my bike on. I start to remember who I was, how far I've come. I start to dream big dreams for my children, and I have a newer, deeper appreciation for the childhood my parents gave me.

Right after moving back to New Jersey, I was nervous that I would run into people I had known when I lived here as a child. I was afraid they would see me in the grocery store and wonder why I was back. I suppose I felt nervous, wondering if I would live up to whatever expectations they might have of me.

But one day, as Ben and I were walking Abby through the woods behind my elementary school, I spotted a girl running down the trail in front of us. Almost immediately I recognized her as one of my very first childhood best friends. She didn't see me at the time, but I later connected with her through Facebook. She was surprised, and happy to know I had moved back.  Shortly after, we organized a small book club with a few other girls still living in the area.

Three years later, we're still meeting every month. Just a small group of us. We call it a book club, but we usually don't talk about the book we've chosen. Instead, it's a few hours every month to connect with people who have known me from the very beginning. And I've known them. And it's amazing how being away for 15 years couldn't change the bond that we all have, just from simply growing up in the same neighborhood. Sharing classrooms, field trips, sleepovers, memories. It's almost like these girls recognized my essence right away, the part of me that is eternal, and never changes. I believe that no matter how old we get, and no matter how we change, there's something about us that always stays the same. The kindergarten crew gets it. They can recognize it. They accept you in whatever form you've become and they can help remind you of who you really are.

Memories are just one sided stories until you share them with the people who lived it with you. Then the memories come alive. They become more real, more tangible, funnier, better. A few months ago at book club we broke out an old yearbook from our elementary school. We went through every picture, telling stories we hadn't thought about in over a decade, wondering where people had ended up, remembering those we miss. I remember sitting at the table across from my friends, feeling so grateful that God has brought me back here. It was unexpected. I never thought I would get this chance. To sit around with my friends and reminisce. But it's like part of me has been made whole that I didn't realize needed to be.

I've come home. Starting over as a full time stay at home mom has been a difficult transition at times. It can be lonely. It can make you question your identity. But God is so good. He knows what I need before I even express it. He's reconnected me with the people and places that helped build the foundation of who I am today. He's given me back something I thought I had lost. And no matter how long or short this chapter here turns out to be, I am eternally grateful.

What's Holding Me Back

I've been really sporadic about blogging. Since the creation of this blog, I've had so many ideas come to me, and just as quickly get lost in the mess of life. As I sit here today, my children are upstairs, sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the utter relief that I call the "synchronized nap." The windows are open next to me, the warm spring breeze is softly blowing in, and I can hear the birds singing to each other outside. And for the first time today, I can take a slow, deep breath. I can hear myself think. I have a moment to write.

Since I was young, I have always felt a calling on my life to write. I know that's not a unique or especially rare dream. I can easily think of ten people that have told me they want to write a book someday.  I think perhaps it is part of human nature to want to express our unique set of adventures, to publish them into a sort of collective experience that allows others to feel with us, dream with us, connect with us. But for me, it's not just a pipe dream. It's what deep down in my soul I feel like I was created to do.

Write. Something beautiful. Something meaningful. Something that will connect my soul to my reader's soul and move them.

And yet, I don't know what I am supposed to write about. Or what exactly I am supposed to write. I keep waiting for it to "come to me." I keep hoping that one day, I will wake up, and I will know exactly what it is I am supposed to write about, and how I am going to do it.

But every morning, I wake up, and instead of feeling inspired, I feel tired. At 5am I sleepily change my son's diaper, feed him a bottle, and lay him back down in his crib, tiptoeing softly out the door, praying fervently that he will sleep for another hour. Most days, though, as soon as I lay my head on the pillow again, I hear my door creak open, and my daughter comes in to tell me good morning demand breakfast.  Her brother's cries have woken her up, and there's no convincing her that going back to sleep would be better for everyone. Because, while she may have inherited her looks from my husband, she most definitely inherited her morning disposition from me. Which means a lot of scowling and grumpiness until food makes its way to her belly.

And so my day begins, and continues, with diaper changes, and meals, and cleaning, and the overall feeling that I'm really a waitress and servant instead of some glorious Mother figure.

And then the writing gets lost. By the time the whirlwind of playdates, nap times, zoo trips, time outs, and cleanup is finished, I've got nothing left.

I don't want you to think I am complaining. I love my children with a deeper love than I could have ever imagined existed. I would not trade one second that I have with them. They are funny, warm hearted, generous, loving and kind.

But the twenty four hour on-call nature of parenting is exhausting. And it leaves little energy for creativity.

I'm not sure what the writing process is supposed to look like. I'm not sure how to get there. I'm not sure I'll ever have any more energy than I have right now. And when I start thinking like that I begin to wonder if I'll ever really write something. Something of significance. Something that will mean something to someone.  I'm afraid that I won't. That at the end of it all, I'll just be another person with a dream that never came true.

I suppose that's what's at the heart of all of this. Fear of failure. Fear of never living up to my potential. Fear of not using the talents that I have been given to create something of meaning. Fear that being a stay at home parent will be the sum total of my contribution to this world.

And, if I'm honest, that's probably what keeps me from writing more often. My role as a stay at home mom to two young, vivacious children is certainly an obstacle. At times a towering obstacle. But that's not the real reason I'm not writing. I'm afraid that I'll give it my everything, and it will come to nothing.

I'm not sure how to work through that. But as the old cliche says, "Admitting it is the first step". So here goes. I'm admitting it. I'm afraid to fail.

Now what?