Lost and Found: Living Between Posts

Our weeks back here in the United States, when we are supposed to be re-learning how to be American, have been wonderful.  They have been full of warm, cheerful meetings with old friends, get togethers with family, and shopping sprees at U.S. stores.  It feels so good to be home.  We have binged on good Mexican food, Tillamook icecream, movies, and fast food.  We have stocked up on cereal and Stephen's hot chocolate mix.  We have luxuriated in the familiar ease, marveled at the gorgeous mountain views, and played in the snow.  In short, we have re-learned what it means to be American.

Still, being "home" comes with a price.  While we are home, at least where our HR paperwork claims home is for us, we don't have a home of our own.  We have been living on the generosity of family, bouncing from one house to another, sleeping in borrowed beds or on couches or on the floor.  We are so grateful to have this opportunity to be home, to renew friendships and family ties.  But a piece of me feels displaced, slightly envious of our friends' and families' homes, filled with furnishings they chose themselves, surrounded by friends and neighbors who know them, comfortable with deep roots.  I envy their easy, normal lives with Wal-Mart on the corner and drinkable tap water and everything in English.  I almost wish I was home for good.  I feel lost, displaced, homeless.

Then I remember the time when we were all night swimming in our pool in Thailand in November, laughing and playing with palm trees.  I remember our family vacations to the beach, exploring the ancient ruins in Cambodia, feeding monkeys in Malaysia, and freezing on our junk boat cruise in Vietnam.  I remember the interesting people we've met, the cultures we've explored, the languages we've dabbled in.  I remember eating spicy Thai food and that time we tried roasted crickets.  I remember why we have chosen to give up the comfortable middle class American lifestyle.  And I am found.