From October 17th 2011

Of Wanderers and Oil Paints

“Are you going home for Fall Break?”

“No I’m going to Kentucky to visit my parents.”

Blank confused stares, criss-crossed categories…but there’s no use taking the statement back. I could embark on an epic tale detailing my life of nomadery and the recent transitions my family has gone through. But I won’t. Because they don’t care that much. So I just smile and leave them to their confusion.

A five hour drive through rolling hills and trees displaying varying degrees of beauty and deadness. Sporadic conversation: the Gospel…the beauty of being a child of God…Islam and the people who live under it…ministry…church…classes. A little Josh Garrels thrown in. Some long silences, and perhaps a short nap on the part of the passenger.

Tumbling out of the car into the arms of my parents who shoo me into the world of Baptist Academia. Where the men wear starched suits and the women wear too much lipstick. I tug on my dress, smiling through my travel-weariness. Senior citizens shake my hand, my father’s colleagues reveal a disturbing amount of knowledge about me. Note to self: interrogate father later about what vicious rumors he has been spreading. Descend into the library, where a catacomb of literary paradise goes on seemingly forever. Book upon book upon book. Deep leather furniture, random paintings and displays, a sword upon the wall, a medieval manuscript laying out…I feel like a child whose fingers are coated in dirt and strawberry jam, but who wants to touch all of the pretty things.

The short days go by quickly. Running errands with Mom, going to pick up the gentlemen from their respective schools, coffee dates with Dad. Setting the table, coming across books I haven’t read in years that mysteriously appear out of white cardboard boxes. Oh the beautiful chaos of trans-Atlantic moves. I open up my box of paints like Howard Carter opened the tomb of Tutankhamun, I unfold my easel lovingly. Three beautiful days spent up to my ears in bright hues, linseed oil, and paint thinner. I emerge from my room be-speckled and smelling like chemicals, but my eyes are bright and my heart is satisfied.

But all the while, in the back of my mind, I think “I can’t wait to go home.” And then I laugh, because I am an MK and I don’t really have one of those. It’s the cost of living a life of nomadery and always sounds awfully melodramatic. Those who wander have always been made out to be romantic figures. But frankly, I miss Jackson, Tennessee. I miss my uncomfortable bed in Rogers 76, and Ruth’s couch in Pascall 61. I miss eating with friends in Cobo and sitting under my tree near the clock tower. I miss taking evening walks and talking about my Lord, who I am falling in love with in a whole new way. I miss my church, oh so much. 

And then I have the pleasant realization that maybe—just maybe, mind you—when I drive into Union University tomorrow at noon, I might be coming back to the place where I belong.