I drove back to Bettendorf on Friday, sludging through the ugly winter weather to spend Christmas with the family. It took me about an hour longer than it should have, but it wasn’t anything compared to the ice trip Nate and I took last year — which we really shouldn’t have.
It was nice when the trip was over and I reached my destination.
I spent the holidays with family and friends.
I left on Sunday for home.
It took me a little over five hours to get back, not bad for holiday traffic. And although the trip home was much shorter than the trip there, it almost seemed longer.
I think we all probably know that sensation that going home always seems more tedious than leaving. For some people that might be because all the fun is over and now is the chore of going home. However, for me it is usually the opposite.
I love to go home.
The miles stretch out as I look for familiar signs. Those signs used to lead to Bettendorf. Now they lead away.
Now the signs are small towns that I pass through. Houses that I recognize. A curve in the road that signifies only a few minutes left.
And the moment I pulled into town my body relaxed. I still had to go to Wal-Mart to pick up some groceries and water-repellent for my new leather boots, but I still was calmer.
I was home.
To me, coming home is a wonderful feeling. It meant getting to my apartment. It meant getting to Nate. It meant not having to drive anywhere else.
As I write this, I wonder what going home will really feel like someday.
Yes, I have a home now. However, this isn’t really my home. I didn’t start out on Earth. My home is ultimately in heaven.
How will I feel when I finally reach that destination?
Instead of just a few hours of traveling, my body is tense after years away.
What will it be like when I finally relax and won’t ever have to travel again?
It’s not something I can answer right now, but I think it’s interesting to think about.
Even when I’m home, I’m still on the way home.