home.

Never in my life did I think I would love "customs." Never in my life did I think the sight of such a long, unmoving line would fill me with excitement. Never in my life did I think that I would be so overcome with emotion as i stepped up to the counter with my passport in hand. Generally, "customs" gets a bad rap, and I don't know that I've ever heard some one praise it or long to be there, and while, I suppose I never done either of those, "customs" has a special place in my heart. To me, "customs" connects me to "home."

After some of my longer or more harrowing journeys, typically a long line or some strict rules aren't exactly what I want, yet somehow when I step onto U.S. soil, I am moved deeply. (And while I am definitely grateful to be an American, I wouldn't typically consider myself a patriot) There is something about "that" room in DFW, ATL, MIA, ORD, JFK, or IAD that makes me light up (Next blog idea: success determined by how many airport codes have been memorized!). Somehow, to me, it represents hope, connectedness, and relief. It represents home. I no longer have to watch my back at every moment. I no longer have to feel lonely, longing for quality time with family and friends who "get it." I no longer have to be inundated with complex problems, life-threatening situations, or endless needs. I no longer have to explain what I mean or do the mental gymnastics of articulating my thoughts in a language that is far from fluency for me. I no longer have to life out of a suitcase where roaches may or may not decide to take up residence. I no longer have to boil water in order to have something to drink. I no longer have to sweat just walking from one place to another. You get the picture.

Even after all the times I've winded through that line, I anticipate my turn to step into line 28, for example, and wait for the customs officer to call me forward. Something wells up inside of me as I confidently clutch my passport and immigration form. Things like, "I belong here," and "this is my home," keep going through my mind. I can't wait to get on the other side. I feel so "American." I feel free, alive, and as if the possibilities are endless, thankful that the adrenaline takes over so I'm not so keenly aware of my exhaustede state. And then, it happens. He (yes, to date, I have never had a female customs officer call me to the counter) beckons me to the desk and I hand him my paperwork. In all but maybe one or two cases, words that I so dearly love to hear are spoken to me. "Welcome home, sweetie." "Glad you are home safely, darling." "Welcome back, dear." "Wow, you've been gone a long time. What were you doing?" "That's a lot of countries to hit in such a short period of time. Are you crazy?" Whether or not these quotes are verbatim, you get the idea. I love hearing that I'm welcomed...that I'm home. I treasure the life I've been blessed to lead and the opportunities to go abroad and I wouldn't trade them for anything at all, yet there is something so moving that I get to come "home."

I feel as though I often neglect the joy of "home," always looking for opportunities to leave, explore, experience. Though I LOVE traveling, adventure, challenges, and trying to "make it" in places very different from here, I am privileged to have such a wonderful and welcoming "home." This period of my life is one of "home." Living, growing, learning, and being "home." What a special, sacred, and blessed time it is. Time to BE "home."