Homecomings

My first-born son is coming home for a visit - he should be here around midnight.  My second-born son got "home" 10 days ago too.  My lovely daughter will be coming home at Thanksgiving.  This little essay belongs to them, and Mom and Dad.


I have always loved homecomings.


I remember vividly several of my own homecomings earlier in my life.  More than a few times in my late teens and early twenties, I was away from my home for extended periods of time.  Several of those times, getting home was quite a long trip, several days in fact.  One memory in particular comes to mind - I was coming home from working out in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming after being gone for more than 3 months.  


During those 13 weeks away, the only communication I had with my family or friends was an occasional letter and perhaps a 10 minute phone call at an old pay phone. Thirty years ago, not even long distance telephone cards existed, so we had to cash in for a roll of quarters and dimes to feed the telephone during the call - no cell phones, no internet, and not a lot of privacy either.  Making a long distance phone call was a pretty big deal - expensive and a hassle - so when I made a call it was because I longed to hear a familiar voice, not because I was obligated to do so.  


By the way, there is value and character building involved in the difficulties encountered to make those calls.  You may not believe me when I tell you, dear reader, but I can remember some of those calls well enough that I remember what was being discussed - actual details of some of those conversations.  And those remembrances have provided me with some pleasant memories over the years.  I remembered them because they cost me something - time, effort, money, and even the heartache involved when hanging up that phone, because I realized how much I missed them.  And then there was the endless background noise of knowing that they really did miss me too, and perhaps worse than I missed them.  Emotions do not work well for me over the telephone wire, but it was all I had, and it was good enough, because we knew no better.  So I learned, despite myself, years later, to cherish those brief moments of communication with the world from which I was parted.  Do you remember 30 year old conversations in vivid detail?  If so, you are blessed, as I am.


There were no awaiting crowds or marching bands at my homecomings, but there may as well have been.  My homecomings were simply driving into my mom and dad's gravel driveway, opening the  truck door, and walking in the garage door, which was never locked.  A shout "I'm home" was my cry, and then hugs all around.  The rest of the celebration consisted of long and exaggerated stories of my journey and updates of the goings-on with the rest of the family, friends, and hometown.  This all occurred at the dinner table, always at the dinner table.  We are, after all, a Louisiana family, and as with all real Louisiana families, life seems to revolve around food.  I loved my homecomings, and those of the people I loved.


As a father, homecomings are different for me now, but I love them no less, and perhaps even more.  If only I had known how different and bittersweet homecomings are for a parent - if only I had known.  There is no greater joy than a child coming home; there is no greater pain than watching them leave.  God forgive me for not knowing, for not being less self focused, and for not understanding.


I love and appreciate homecomings more now.  I pray that my heavenly Father loves them too - I know He does.