318/365

Something like 13 days and 2700 miles later and there remains only 550 more sky miles until I am home.

Well, sort of.
What is home?

I haven't lived in the town where I was born for 45 years (and actually, that wasn't a town, but officially, an Air Force base hospital, perhaps a sign of things to come...). I have never considered calling that "home."

At Christmas time, I will visit the town where I grew up, where a few family members and friends still live- but I'll spend my days as a guest in other's houses and my nights in a hotel room. Although it is familiar and a favorite place of mine, I no longer consider it "home".

Sure, "home" would be the place where I live right now. But depending on what day of the week, that might change, too. No matter what side of the border I am in, when I leave, I say I'm "going home." I qualify my home by location, but recognize the temporal nature of that, too. I mean, a quick count reminds me that I have lived in at least 20-something homes in my life.

In her commentary on homesickness, Jen Pollock Michel writes,

"As writer Julian Barnes put it in his novel Nothing to Be Frightened Of, we live with “the vicious awareness that this is a rented world.” The grass withers, and the flowers fade: Ours is an impermanent life. At the very least, home is a steadying consolation when the lights go out."

I confess, I am easily homesick. My husband teases that I really can't be away from normal life for more than a few days. I think he exaggerates, but I certainly recognize the truth in that statement. I do love to travel, and I do love to return home...
wherever that may be.

317/365

"If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need," Marcus Tullius Cicero reportedly said. Cicero might have made questionable political alliances back in the days of the Roman Empire, but certainly, I wouldn't argue with his wisdom on two of the necessities of life.

Now, to be sure, I will never claim to be gardener myself. In fact, I tend to have anti-garden tendencies, so much so that my family counts keeping a single hanging basket alive past the 4th of July as a victory. Oh, I have Really Good Intentions. I used to spend winter evenings paging through seed catalogs, garden dreaming of spring to come, and never actually ordering a thing. I love to wander the nursery aisles, picking flats of young plants for a garden bed. I so admire my gardening friends- Trish who would take me and my littles on the seasonal garden tour and knowingly tell us every name of every plant; Julie who tells me that she "doesn't have much this year," and still manages a fresh produce and floral bounty the likes I'll never ever see.

Therefore, when my mom, the Ultimate Local Hostess, suggested a visit to the Dallas Arboretum and Botanical Gardens, I was all in. The morning did not disappoint. We arrived at the cusp of change, and so saw the best of both the end of fall and a sneak preview of Christmas. We strolled through the deep gold and oranges and bronzes and greens of fall, the mums and marigolds and sage and cornflowers showing off their November beauty. We followed the Yellow Brick Road through the Pumpkin Village, where every known gourd seemed to be on display,
forming huts and houses and a welcome to the Merry Land of Oz.

But we also fast-forwarded into the holiday season with the 12 Days of Christmas gazebo displays. Each scene depicts a verse from the Christmas carol; animals and costumed figures and lights and music wait at each stop. The sharp-eyed (and it took a few stops before we figured this out) were treated to additional treats- even the weather vanes at the top of the gazebos gave a hint of the verse of the song.

Finally, we toured A Tasteful Place- the edible display garden on the grounds. We spied red peppers and purple eggplants hidden among the leaves. We admired impressive stalks of brussel sprouts. We refrained from snipping off tastes of the freshest of lettuces and perhaps understood just a little better how Peter Rabbit found himself lost among the cabbages.

For a girl who lives most of the time in a dusty place, that often seems more brown than green, a morning in the gardens was blessing, indeed. Perhaps the next stop should be the library...

307/365

I look out the bedroom window, over the roofs of houses, over increasingly bare tree limbs waving their last goodbye to fall. I could have been looking out the back window of my house in Omaha; except for the hill in the distance, the scene was that familiar. I realize once again- I never expected to love the Midwest. But I do.

I love the old houses, built in the early 20th century. I know exactly how the wood in their attics smell, the dust of the years, the bite of cold in the winter as you stick your head through the square in the ceiling. I know exactly the faint must of the basements, the creak of the wooden staircase, the drafts that try to drift through the window case gaps. When we lived in an old neighborhood, we knew that only three families had dwelt in the home before us. That sturdy old house matured during a time when people stayed put and in a place where families set roots for generations.

I love the buildings down in the town, the brick structures that have been used and re-purposed again and again over the decades, the faint paint of signs of years past still clinging to the exterior blocks. I look at the upper windows and wonder who lives over the shops and who has improved the doorways and who dreams about working on the street where generations have made their businesses. I cheer renovations and revitalization in long established areas of town, making the old new again.

I love the old churches, their steeples rising above the horizon, their stained glass windows giving a hint of the beauty inside. I love their pews, smoothed over decades of worship, generations of families filing in next to one another for praise and for prayer. I love the old signs that tell congregants what number hymn they are singing this Lord's Day and I love the rich wood that gleams from years of elbow polish and maybe some Old English besides. I hear the voices of the saints when I walk through the doors, the harmony of voices in song, the petitions of prayer uttered aloud. I think of the community that has mourned through hardship and rejoiced in celebration with one another.

I love the hospitality that greets us here. I love how eager Midwesterners are to show you their best. This week my hosts made sure that we visited The Best Donut Shop in town. They gave us a riding tour and told us how things were and how things have changed. They drove different routes to make sure we saw all the countryside. We finish thinking, what a great town! What can we see next time?!

I will always think of myself as a girl from the West. I'm awfully proud answer "New Mexico," when asked, "Where are you from?" But, I'm equally as proud to share how the nearly eight years we spent in Omaha impacted my life. Yes, my temperature finger has been on the edge of numb for a few days. Even so, I'm glad we have opportunity to be back in the Midwest.

306/365

Now I taught the weeping willow how to cry,
And I showed the clouds how to cover up a clear blue sky;
And the tears that I cried for that woman are going to flood you Big River,
Then I'm going to sit right here until I die.
- Johnny Cash, "Big River" (1957)

We cross the border between Iowa and Wisconsin just so we could drive the road alongside the Mississippi River. The Big River runs 2350 miles top to bottom, from the Minnesota headwaters at Lake Itasca to its destination end at the Gulf of Mexico near New Orleans. The Mississippi/Missouri river system ranks as the fourth longest river system in the world. But at this stretch along the way, it seems difficult to believe that these meandering waters creating only a series of ripples along the way could ever make it that far. The skies have turned gray and rather gloomy by the time we reach the lookout point on the side of the road, the sun not far from day's end. Those old lyrics and Cash's deep baritone voice run through my head, a familiar refrain that today found exactly its own place in time.

247/365

Hey friend-
I know that I told you this story would be better told in person, and really, it would! But there are so many stories to tell in person and never enough time. This one I'm going to try to share in writing. I had an Amazing Race practice adventure today. I think I may have learned a few things for when we make it on the show. (grin!)

It starts as an ordinary travel day. We arrive in the lobby on time, even early. We check out of our room, surrender our door keys (yes! Real old-fashioned-cut-from-metal-hanging-on-a-keyring-keys!) and give our towel cards back. The cashier notices that we still have a safe key, oops!, and we give that one up too. One of us arranges for a minibus to transport the 12 of us traveling to the airport at the same time. Somehow the minibus for 12 turns into two vans for 6, but that's fine. We hit a major pothole on the highway and Tim hits his head on the ceiling and yelps loud enough for the driver to laugh out loud. We're all good.

We arrive at the airport with time to spare. LOTS of time to spare. We say goodbyes to two friends and we are again a party of 10. We wonder if we might be the first through security that day. We drink coffee and wander through shops and refrain from buying the same souvenirs we might find in Progreso. We read books and send silly faces to family on Snapchat and watch people. We move to the gate. We wait. FINALLY we load the plane and take off up through the clouds and all is well. Free drink and chips! Bonus camera on the nose of the plane for live landing video!

We disembark and notice that there is a luggage conveyor. We notice there are bags coming out. Surely we don't pick up our luggage here? Or do we? No, you don't. Yes, you do. Yes, we do. We pick up our bags and try to discern where to go next. We make our way back through security. Take our phones and change out of pockets. Lose the water bottle. Lots of time to spare, time enough to sit down for lunch. We move to the gate. We watch people. We are bored. We board.

(I know. This is not Amazing Race adventure worthy. I know. This is Ordinary Americans Travel Home stuff. I know. Wait for it.)

We arrive in Monterrey. This is where it gets interesting. We know that we need to get a ride from the airport to a bus station, and a bus to Reynosa, and we're not sure how that happens. We collect our luggage and the guys get in line and we see a few nodding heads and a few pointing arms and a few nodding heads. We see wallets come out, which is always a sign for something. The guys come over. YES! SUCCESS!! We have a van for 10 arranged to the bus station; we have tickets on the 6:55 bus. We have an hour to get there. We head to the taxi stand.

We line up. We wait. Turns out the van for 10 is really two taxis for 4. So we will put five people in each. I go in one taxi, Tim goes in the other. Our taxi leaves the other group behind. (Freeze frame! Amazing Race Tactical Error happening RIGHT NOW! Tim has both bus tickets. We are no longer together in the same place. Loyal watchers groan!) How many races have been lost in the taxi?! We tell our driver we have 6:55 bus tickets. He tells us that we'll never make it. (Cue anxious music!) He tells us if we pay the extra 35 pesos for the toll road, it will go faster. YES! The driver takes this challenge seriously. The four of us in the back seat try to arrange ourselves strategically, as in strategically find a spot where neither butt cheek nor leg loses circulation. We move into traffic.

We are stopping! (cue brake noises) Rush hour- Monterrey. Traffic waiting to go through the toll booth comes to a COMPLETE stop. Not one other option exists. We inch forward. Slowly. VERY slowly. The taxi driver tactically changes lanes. The green digital numbers on the dashboard clock turn. We exchange text with the other taxi. They are somewhere behind us. They also choose the toll road. Tim's cell phone dies. If you are at home watching the Amazing Race right now, you are screaming at the TV. NOOOOOOO!!!!! If you are in a packed taxi in the middle of Monterrey rush hour traffic, you have to just look at each other and laugh. How will this end?

Finally, precious minutes lost, we pass through the toll and the driver really steps on the gas. REALLY. As in we pass through the digital speed zone that says SPEED LIMIT 78 KPH. YOUR SPEED 98 KPH. (Metric measurements make it look much more dramatic than it is- that's really just 60 mph when we should be at 50mph... but still! It seems like 98 mph with all the traffic around us, with all the lane changes...) I stop looking at the cars we are about to hit the traffic ahead. I look at the clock numbers change. 6:50. 6:53. 6:55 There is just no way we are going to make it to the bus in time.

But suddenly ahead! The bus station. Except we are on the wrong side of the road and need to make a U-Turn to the parking lot. SO close yet SO far. Along with several other drivers, our driver noses into stopped traffic. He sees a gap and accelerates ahead into an empty space at the bus station drive. There is a bus at the curb- "REYNOSA" on the front. Our driver opens the trunk and we grab out bags and run. This would be the point where viewers at home might scream at the TV- DON'T FORGET THE TIP!!! And then groan. Confession: I forgot the tip. SIGH! Major travel fail! So sorry, Admirable Taxi Driver, so sorry!

(NOTE: Still no Taxi Number Two with Tim, and so, I still have no bus ticket. If a million dollars is on the line, I'm standing on the curb and can't board the bus... Let's be honest- we are traveling with two families with cute kids. We are probably not the Fan Favorites. Maybe the folks at home are cheering... )

But wait! The bus on the curb is not our bus. In this instance, we give thanks that Mexico is known for flexible, not linear, schedules. Another bus approaches the station, another REYNOSA bus. YES! We haven't yet missed the bus! We look up and the Taxi Number Two is pulling up to the curb. YES! They haven't yet missed the bus!

And then just as quickly as the last two hours ramped up, time slips back into Mexico tranquilo. We show our tickets to the lady at the stand and get our bag of drink and cookies and earphones. We climb the steps and make our way to the back of the bus and slide into the very last 10 seats on the coach. My leg rest is broken and I'm next to the bathroom, but I'm on the bus, gracias a Dios. The bus slides into rush hour traffic. Twilight turns to dusk turns to dark and we settle into the rocking rhythm of road. The home stretch.

Chalk it up to one more training run, sister. I think we could compete!
Life is indeed an amazing race.

HeartFistBumpDancingLady,
xo,
k

243/365

Confession- I whined and complained, sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud (please forgive me- I really am sorry about that...), about this trip way more than anyone who is taking a trip to a coastal beach resort should ever do. I can be ungrateful. It was a matter of timing, really, not at all the destination, not at all the company. Who knew that I would be leaving behind one displaced daughter and missing the moved move-in date of another? (Let's be clear. I know this is not suffering. In the perspective of everything happening in the world, I know this is whining.)

Nonetheless, the predawn alarm sounds and we start out on the first leg, a drive down the road and across the border. We wait. We pack our bags in the van and caravan down the road. We arrive at the bus station. We wait. They hand us a plastic bag with 7Up and cookies and earphones. We board the bus and head south. We ride. We arrive at the bus station and unload our bags and buy tickets and transfer to another bus. We ride. We cross the city and watch traffic and look for signs. We ride. We arrive at the airport and find the shortest line and check in. We wait. We eat and we sip coffee and we read and finally, we load. We arrive at the destination and collect our bags and negotiate a taxi. We stuff 12 people in seats for 10. We ride. We arrive at the resort to check in. We wait. And when all is said and done, 15 hours after wake-up, we are eating at a Mexican buffet and catching up with most dear friends and stopping for a fresh churro besides.

Note to self- stop complaining.

208/365

She was boarding the first flight before I went to bed.
In the middle of the night, I could see the next leg would depart on time.
Another pre-dawn check showed her over the Atlantic.
At breakfast, the little jet icon crossed my telephone screen into Canada.
By lunch, she reported in, through customs and live from Dallas.
And before dinnertime, the small silver plane landed on the hot blacktop of the place we call home and we waited for her to emerge from the gate.

Today, we were the Airport Reunion scene and others watched us and smiled.

Welcome home to our missionary servant traveler. We missed you, Sarahbear.

42/365

"Huevo y tocino y huevo y papa, por favor."
The trip started as most travels out of the Rio Grande Valley do, with a stop at Valero for gas and coffee and breakfast tacos. We folded down the foil, made sure the salsa wasn't dripping, and pointed north. We watched the graywhite haze burn off as the sun rose higher in the sky. Winter takes a toll on the landscape even this far south, as the grass lays dry and even the evergreen live oak leaves hang dark and wizened before the renewal of spring growth.

Semi trucks and pickups and Norteño band buses share the road. Roadside fruit stands, with the oranges of citrus and bright pottery, flash on the right. Slow for the ICE checkpoint,
"Yes, only 2 people. Yes, US citizens. Thank you, have a good day."
Watch for decreasing speed zones, for local police setting a lair. Train passes us on the right.

We arrive just when expected and share hugs with my brown-eyed kids. It takes about, oh, one second to notice the new dent in the car. Which young adult has ever skipped the opportunity to share inopportune news on neutral territory? The trade ensues nonetheless. Which young adult has ever skipped the opportunity to swap the mini-van back for the mini-SUV? Crazy cute dog runs circles around us, wades in the little pond, chases the remains of a tennis ball. We peek in the winery, full of tasters, no hurries on a bright Saturday midday.

But the car is making noises, grinding and squealing. The oil shows the milky film of other liquid. Anxiety proves difficult to squelch. Isn't it a distraction when kill-joy What If shows up on the road trip? We detour north for a bite of lunch and take a lap around Market Days at the Courthouse Square. No crafty or antique wares today. I take the wheel for the return trip home.

I scan the radio dial and tune in the sure-to-sing-a-long station, volume kept low to prevent distraction for my reading shot-gun rider. One eagerly awaited stop for gas- and disappointment.
"I'll have a junior Jamocha shake."
"Sorry, the shake machine is broken."
Frequent checks along the way, and sure enough, both vehicles make it home safely. I already begin to plot a do-over for the season ahead.

333/336

Lousy vacationers, really, we are; still, days pass by in a blink. At the airport, the sign reminds us, "eat, drink- life is short."
Too short for silly squabbles, too short not to be kind, too short to waste time on foolishness, too short to ignore gospel truth and gospel grace, to short to miss joy all around us.

I am thankful for:
one more chocolate croissant,
the privilege of leaving,
the joy of coming home,
safe travels,
memories made,
friends who give without hesitation,
the bond of life together,
a place to call home.

332/336

“If you want to be reminded of the love of the Lord, just watch the sunrise.” 
― Jeannette Walls, Half Broke Horses

Moment by moment the sky changed from dark to grays to pastels. And then finally, right on time, the brilliant bright light peeked over the horizon. I suppose that most don't cheer the sunrise, that act which happens every day, whether we are there to watch it or not. But to watch it, really, isn't it a marvelous show?

I'm thankful for:
the wonder of every day,
hot coffee,
those who labor for my comfort,
stories that captivate,
the rhythm of the tide,
good company,
laughing out loud,
a savory salad and a sweet crepe,
my dinner date,
the fan overhead,
sleep.

331/366

One of the surprise blessings of raising up kids is that one day watching other littles becomes an unexpected bonus. The sad goodbye is quickly forgotten with the "well, should we go eat?"
And when you are the babysitters, a dinner of watermelon, strawberries, an empanada, ice cream and sprinkles is all good. We wandered through the tables of goods, looking with the eyes of children... Look at the turtles! The butterfly spins! (don't touch the glass!)

I'm thankful for:
no purpose of yours can be thwarted (Job 42:2,
slow days, slow waves,
life with children,
children who are young adults,
early to bed.

330/366

We walked a little bit farther and then turned back. I stopped and wondered, in the certain busy-ness of life even then, did a woman ever stand at the edge of the sea and marvel at how beautiful it all is?

I'm thankful for:
But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him,    and his righteousness to children's children (Psalm 103:17),
new roads,
travel buddies,
"of course. You're the Hollidays.",
afternoon naps,
surprise photos on my tablet,
a couch in the corner, sitting next to my guy.

329/366

So we need grace to see again,
to tremble again,
and to bow down again 
at the feet of the One who deserves
our awe.
Paul David Tripp, New Morning Mercies

On the first morning of vacation, I sat with my face in the sun, and really, just sat, still. Although I miss the traditions of the day- family not with us, the parade, the cooking and all the familiar food, I was yet content in this moment. Yes- grace new every morning.

I'm thankful for:
blue skies and blue water,
sitting still,
non-traditional holidays,
grace to see again.

328/366

The getting-ready's and the getting-there's finally morph into the getting-on.

I'm thankful for:
my passport,
opportunity to travel,
anticipation of rest.

162/366

I dozed off and missed the peanut and pretzel parceling out, but I was greeted with a marshmallow-puff sky when I opened my eyes and the window-seat shade. I don't remember my first flight, though I have TWA wings in my childhood jewelry box as an ancient souvenir. Yet even after so many years of flying, I still marvel that a metal tube can zoom above the clouds.

21/366

Head in the clouds.
I hope I never get over the wonder of flying.

20/366

But the best part may have been the guy who waved for the camera...

19/366

Vacation is having nothing to do and all day to do it.
- Robert Orben

18/366

How do you describe well the blessing of having history together, years of knowing and being known, of loving and being loved? How do you describe the blessing of the gift of time together, of slow mornings and long walks and constant talks? How do you describe the joy of sharing beauty together, of sunny skies, of delicious food, of painted sunset skies?

All is grace.

16/366

Landscape

Isn’t it plain that the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they want

about spiritual patience? Isn’t it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors to my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.

Every morning so far I’m alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky – as though

all night they have thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.

- Mary Oliver