I am excited to share this post with you all, because I know so many of us young women who get married (or stay single, as the case may be) and move away from our close friends and family struggle to feel like we are “at home”, even years later. As Nola shares, this longing is a longing for something more than moving back where we came from, it’s a longing for something heavenly… ~Alison

Where I Belong

When I married my beloved and moved 2,000 miles away from my childhood home, I thought I was equipped to successfully settle into a new community. I’d grown up in a very close family, but I’d also spent three years teaching school away from home. I enjoyed the adventure of making new friends and seeing the inworking of new communities.

When I moved into a freshly remodeled house with my new husband, I was living a dream. Together we’d chosen the paint colors, the kitchen cabinets, and the glow-in-the-dark grout for the bathroom tile. I filled the cupboards and closets with my things, decorated the house in a way that pleased my eye, and stocked the pantry with groceries my husband and I purchased together.

I was Queen of my home, cooking what I wished, cleaning when I wanted, and hosting whoever, whenever we desired. I set out to make new friends and find a place to belong. Hints of friendship came in various ways: a friendly chat after church, an invitation for Sunday dinner, and comfortable conversations around campfires.

Years passed, but still I sensed that these were not my people, and this was not my home. I was outside looking through frosty glass; they were safely inside. Inside was laughter and friendship, brightness and warmth; outside I was alone in the cold. I see sisters shopping together and babysitting for each other. I’d hear talk of local family traditions and seasonal celebrations, but this was not my family, and I did not belong.

My mind and heart would wander back to what I had, where I came from, and what I’d lost.

When my mom and the majority of her twelve siblings married, they settled into the local community and produced playmates for me. By the time I came into existence, I had a brother and many cousins, who are my automatic friends. Growing up on the family farm, I never lacked for social interaction. I watched my mom and her sisters plan weddings and feed the rejoicing, attend funerals and feed the grieving. They took each other to town, to appointments, and to the airport. They freely shared exciting news, kitchen tools, and their opinions. 

When they’d gather to tend the garden, to pick peas and pickles, or to process copious amounts of corn, my cousins and I would gather too. We’d snap fresh peas, popping them into our mouths, puzzling our moms with why our bowls weren’t filling up. We’d sit in Grandma’s kitchen crunching on fresh dill pickles while our moms bustled around us. Cousins crowd into the corners of all my childhood memories.

As I moved into my teen years, these playmates became my allies. When my mom didn’t seem to understand me, they did. They were always available for a walk, a trip to Dairy Queen, or, best of all, a sleepover. We’d pour out our hearts over a board game while we ate chocolate chip cookie dough or chips with salsa so hot that our eyes would leak tears. Well, we’re going to blame the tears on the salsa anyway. 

We promised each other we’d only permit marriage to nice men and hold each other accountable to keep our houses clean and our children from becoming unruly. They had been my closest associates in the past, and I still wanted them to be. But living 2,000 miles away, I would have to start from scratch. 

I invited ladies for coffee and hosted friends for brunch spurred on by the hope of deepening friendship. New memories were made during shopping trips and impulsive prayer meetings or working side by side at sewing circle or serving hot lunch at school. I began to feel that maybe I could belong.

Then, a call from home — with news of a birth, a bridal shower, a monumental birthday celebration, or a sudden death — would remind me that I was missing out. I could not visit the new baby, attend the bridal shower, celebrate the birthday, nor stand beside a grave and weep with the grieving. What I once had was gone, and I couldn’t recreate it.

It seemed that everyone around me shared history and nearby family. I was left to wonder if I was the only one struggling to find my people and my place; if I was the only one longing for loved ones far away. 

One evening in church, a revelation with Niagara force roared over me as I stood surrounded by a group of people singing in beautiful harmony. 

These people are walking the same road I am in this battle of life. They are guiding their children in the path of Jesus and extending hope to the world around them. These are my people.

Like me, they’ve been adopted into God’s family. Jesus calls them his brothers and sisters. They are heirs with Jesus and children of the Heavenly Father. This is my family.

This home is my children’s home and where they are making friends and memories. Together we laugh and work, eat and talk, grow and learn. We host friends, play games, tackle projects, and make family memories. This home is my home.

These ladies have babysat my children, brought me delicious meals, and arrived unexpectedly with a box of groceries when finances were painfully tight. They’ve sat with me in the nursery as we rocked our babies and shared victories and struggles in Sunday school. They have challenged my point of view and let me glimpse their hearts. We’ve traveled many miles to wrap our arms around each other and weep at viewings and funerals of loved ones. These are my friends.

And here, in my new home, my hope is renewed. This season of friendship may not look the same as my childhood friendships, but friendship is here. And for now, this is where I belong. 

Some days, I still long for the familiarity of my faraway family and friends. There’s a precious bond in shared history which cannot be remade or replaced. But I know I can’t go back and recapture what I once had. The passage of time has brought changes, and things are no longer as they are in my memories. 

And I realize that this longing will never be fulfilled in any earthly home, for this longing is a longing for heaven.