We are sitting in the Boston airport and people are milling about. We’re here early, with four hours before our flight.
No, that’s not right. We’re sitting in a field.
Nope. That’s not right either. I have no idea where we are. I don’t remember a thing about the setting. We’re not in our house. We aren’t at the airport. Not even a hotel. We’re in some other-worldly place. A place I’ve never seen before. A place I can’t describe.
My husband and I are standing across from each other. “I don’t want this!” I cry. “This is NOT what I want to do!” My arms are crossed and hot streams of tears are flowing down my face like jets in a jacuzzi. I don’t know where my kids are. My guess is they are off somewhere playing with friends—or maybe crying angry tears of their own. Heck, they could be sitting on the sidelines, watching as I scream at David in between gasps for air.
“I’m not okay this time around,” I scream erratically. “We did this once. We left everything behind to come here. And I know you think moving back to Georgia is moving home. But it’s not going to be like that!” I can see his face start to crumble, but I can’t gain control of myself. I have no desire to protect his emotions. Right now I simply have to get it all off my chest. In rapid fire, I throw out one sentence after another.
“We’ve changed so much in the last eight years that moving back to Georgia will be like moving to a foreign land. We can never go home again. It will never be home again! We’ll never own that house on Cherokee Place. Grant Park will never again be our neighborhood. And even if we did buy that house and move back to that neighborhood, so many of the people we loved so much when we were there are gone. They’ve all moved on as well.”
I’m so caught up in my own emotions that I don’t even notice how he responds. I start to crumble into a ball on the floor and sob uncontrollably and he begins to talk in a much calmer voice than mine. “But I've already rented us a house. We already have a place to go. We can make it home!”
I look up at him and he takes it as a cue to keep going. “Your mom will be there. And your sisters will be there. And your aunts will be there. Our kids can have family again! There will always be cousins to share birthdays with. There will always be people to come watch dance events! We know churches and pastors in the neighborhood. Our kids can grow up going to Affirm! We’ll never have to do Thanksgiving or Christmas on our own.
“This won’t be like moving to Massachusetts. We already have a community there. We just have to tell them we're coming home and they're going to wrap their arms around us and welcome us home.”
But I don’t believe him. I don’t believe a word of it. He thinks this is going to be like the prodigal son. But I’m not so sure.
I'm thinking about having to start over with children that are nine and almost twelve. They are in this tweeny age, where everything feels so important and so dramatic. I'm dreading the animosity that's going to come from this move. Not only in my own heart, but in the hearts of my children. I feel this deep, physical pain in my heart from what I know is about to happen.
I gather myself and step away to call my friend Jon, who lives in the neighborhood where David has rented a house. And I beg him, “Please please tell me that you're going to be home tomorrow. We’ll be in town sometime mid-afternoon. That's when we'll be moving into our house. And it would be really great for me if you were there.” Even though everything inside of me thinks moving back is the wrong decision, something just tells me that if he is going to be there, then I could do this. I could be okay.
But his response to me is so jarring. Not at all what I expect.
“I’m so sorry, but I have to work in the city every day, and am hardly at home. I don't know when I'll be able to see you. I promise I will, but it may be a few days.”
I toss and turn, my sleep becoming restless. Jon’s rejection wakes me up with a start. I feel so raw. I shake my head, a physical act to remind myself it isn’t real—it was only a dream—and then I think to myself: what once was a dream has now become a nightmare.
It was October eight years ago that we visited Boston for the very first time. On this exact day, October 20, 2015, we put our beloved bungalow on Cherokee Place on the pre-market. Six weeks later, it belonged to someone else, and I cried about it every single day.
Six months after we moved to Massachusetts, I pleaded with God in the middle of the night. Please, Lord. Please. Make a way for us to move back home. David started looking for jobs in the Atlanta area. What we felt certain would be easy proved to be impossible. We did move again, but not back to Georgia. Instead we moved to the beach.
It would be lying to say we’ve been happy in Massachusetts ever since. The last eight years have been filled with wandering. And wondering. Perhaps they are one and the same.
We have frequent talks about moving back. What neighborhood we might live in, what church we would go to, and how we could reconnect with our community there. We still catch ourselves looking at houses full of Southern charm with deep longing and painful tugs of the heart. Just a few months ago, I called our Atlanta realtor to inquire about a condo that had just come on the market. “Maybe we can split our time,” I said.
Dreams are weird. Sometimes they pop out of nowhere; haunting us for days. I wish I knew what prompted this one. Was it merely coincidence that the dream occurred on the very same day we first visited Boston eight years ago? Has my brain become rewired to think about home when the leaves start to fall?
Or was it a subtle message from God? A nudge to embrace what I have, to be grateful for the moments, to wake up and notice the community we’ve created for ourselves. Maybe even a nudge to admit that New England finally feels like home.
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