home.

{photo source: chris olmstead photography}

ever since i was in college, hearing the song "i'll be home for christmas" just lit me up inside.  being a young twenty something, i had spent many years living away, which for this homebody-family-loving-new-england-hearted girl, was--in and of itself--a miracle.  wherever i was, the days leading up to christmas always meant one thing.  soon, i would be on an airplane, headed to one place..the place i loved: home.

i can still remember the excitement i felt as i peered out the small airplane windows and first caught sight of the sleepy maine villages, blanketed in snow.  my stomach would be swirling with anticipation of seeing my family, eating my mom's cooking again and sleeping in my own bed.  familiarity.  comfort.  home.

upon landing, it felt like a million years as the passengers ahead of me slowly gathered their belongings and trickled down the aisle and into the airport.  i would whisk my bags as quickly as i could and scramble off the plane.  and always, the first face i saw stood high above the rest of the crowd waiting for their loved ones.  sparkling eyes and that familiar grin that i knew all of my life; my dad.  he would always break from the crowd to make sure he was the first to get to hug me.  and he would hold on and squeeze me until i could hardly breathe.  and that was when i first felt my shoulders relax and any stress melt away, in my dad's strong, hearty embrace.  home.

the first thing i would always do--always--the minute we got home was run upstairs and into my parents closet.  on the right hand side, my dad's side, i'd reach up on the top shelf and grab his oversized nike sweatshirt.  it was navy blue with a giant orange swoosh.  and wearing it just made me feel cozy.  and safe.  and at home.

my mom made the same treats every year: date filled cookies and powdered-sugar-dusted tea cakes.  red and white swirled candy cane cookies and jars of cheese spread.  my grandmother's peanut butter balls would be kept in the garage where they'd stay out of reach and nice and cold until christmas eve when my dad would finally let us all dig into them.  you, know: tradition.  the same decorations would be out every christmas; my mom's gold and red tree, white candles glowing in every window and her caroler dolls lining the mantle.  i would stop a minute and take it all in.  it had been this way since my childhood.  i loved it.  and my heart felt anchored.  home.

every christmas eve-eve, my sister and i would spend the night at my grammy and grampy's.  we would get in our pajamas and bundle up in blankets, giggling with excitement, as we drove around in their car looking at lights and counting all the christmas trees we saw.  we'd eventually coax them into getting us blizzards (which let's face it, it didn't take much coaxing), and we'd listen to their old christmas favorites crooned over the radio; mostly sung by perry como, as i remember.  even after we were married, we continued the tradition, even if it wasn't spending the night.  and even if we ended up doing the driving once they got too up in their years to see well at night.  that little christmas light tour in our pajamas with our grandparents meant christmas was just around the corner.  and i was home.

christmas eve, the family all gathered at our house before church.  we'd laugh and take pictures and eat lots of food.  when it came time, we all bundled up in coats over our christmas eve attire and head to church to sing amidst candlelight.  i can still hear my dad's deep bass voice, booming above the crowd. after church, we'd drive up dudley street, a little winding road that followed the river and was dotted with big old houses.  every year on christmas eve, they'd line the street with white luminaries and it was one of the prettiest sights i'd ever seen.  we'd come home and take several trips up and down the stairs, bringing all of the gifts down to put under the tree.  my dad would usually get out all of the gifts he'd bought for my mother and ask me and my sister to help him wrap because he was so terrible at it.  we'd complain and ask him why he didn't have us do it earlier, but we'd always do it for him because his wrapping really was terrible.  then we'd sit in our pajamas and drink christmas drink (ginger ale mixed with cranberry juice) and eat some snacks and enjoy being together.  christmas would come the next day with stockings and grandparents and exchanging gifts.  we'd each take turns watching everyone open their gift, and my sister would sit under the tree and hand them all out.  my aunt, uncle and cousins would come later and we'd gather around pots of fondue and play games.  eat more food, drink more christmas drink.  it was cozy and felt magical.  family.  traditions.  home.

i can't help but get a bit teary eyed now, reflecting upon these memories.  now, when i hear the song "i'll be home for christmas", instead of lighting up, my insides kind of ache all the way down to my toes.  for me, there is no "coming home" the way that there used to be.  without my dad, so much of that familiarity is gone.  it's been four years and it still hits me during the holidays... that "home" feeling, that familiarity, that coziness just isn't the same.

there are new traditions and moments of joy for sure.  perhaps some of that would be different anyway, because now i'm grown up.  i'm married, and i have kids of my own.  still, i can't help but think that i can never go back.  i can never go back to my mom's and dad's home, and feel that filled up feeling again.  and some days that is very, very hard.  it causes me to reflect on that safe, secure, settled feeling of "home", and that someday, i will have that again... in the most fulfilled, ultimate way, just as god intended.  i will leave this earth and there will be no more tears, no more crying, no more pain.  no more longing for home.

but until then, we'll continue on... making most of the moments we have... even if they ache, even if they're tearful.  and i'll spend however many years the lord allows me to have, making a place for my two little girls to look forward to coming back to, just as i did.  i want them to feel that same sense of warmth and security when someday they are grown and gone.  i want them to know that there will always be a place for them where they are loved, where they are safe and secure.  and tonight, on christmas eve-eve, nick and i will bundle them up in pajamas and blankets, and we'll take the christmas light tour and listen to old christmas music, maybe even some perry como.  we'll drink christmas drink and we'll head to church tomorrow night to sing amidst candlelight.

and i'll wear that oversized navy blue sweatshirt of my dad's with that bright orange swoosh.  and i'll feel wrapped up in memories of him that make me feel cozy and happy and right at home.

and we will make our own traditions too.  texas ones.  and sugar cookie decorating ones.  and ones shared with family and friends.  and, until we are truly home... may we make the most of our days.  may we love, make memories, find joy and experience peace...not just this season, but throughout the whole year.

"may the god of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope, by the power of the holy spirit." romans 15:13

merry christmas, dad.  miss you so terribly, but i know you're home.  

love you with all my heart,

meg