Like Comin' Home

Here’s a sneak peak into a side of me that might surprise you and/or you might think is cheesy:  I love the movie Sweet Home Alabama.  As a whole I’m not a huge “chick flick” fan, and I don’t like to cry so watching tear-jerkers is not my idea of a good time.  I think perhaps growing up in Podunkville I rebelled by distancing myself from anything that had to do with twangy country music, rodeos, and Wrangler jeans.  But, there is some mysterious place in my heart that comes alive when I watch Sweet Home Alabama or when I listen to certain country music, or when I daydream about raising my kids in the country and teaching them to catch crawdads and skip rocks.  And what moving back to Molalla has taught me about myself is that I’ve just been plain old prideful.  Somehow I thought that I was too good for this place and that real success meant living in a city and having fashionable things.  Coming back here meant I’d somehow failed. 

I think that’s why I love watching Sweet Home Alabama. Now obviously I am not Melanie Carmichael.  I didn’t go and become a fashion designer and I certainly did not come back home to my high school boyfriend.  I’ve got the man of my dreams right next to me, and wonder of wonders, he loves Molalla too.  What I love about it is that it reminds me that there are some really precious things about living in a small town where everybody knows everybody and you have a history together.  That is so rare these days because we are such a mobile society.  We move so often that nobody has a history with anybody.  But as I look back, I cherish the fact that I lived in the same town my whole life.  Some of my best friends have been my best friends longer than I can remember.  And that history is irreplacable.  Since Jeff and I have moved seven times since we’ve been married (!) I think that longing to stay is extra strong in my heart.  As I contemplate Dutch’s growing up years, I desire that he would have that continuity, that security, that consistency.  In the movie Jake tells Melanie, “You can have roots and wings.”  I pray that Dutch would have both.

I also learned to appreciate the people here.  As we attend and minister at Foothills, our home church, and get to know people, sometimes I feel like our world’s clash.  At times I’ve felt conspicuous, at times awkward, but as I’ve been slow to speak and quick to listen (not always) I’ve come to cherish these precious people.  We may have different educational experiences, different views on certain issues, and different dreams for our life, but we love Jesus all the same and we can learn from each other’s perspectives.  In fact, one of the reasons why I’m thrilled that we’re here is that I feel like the church has so much to offer us and we might, perhaps, hopefully, have something to offer them as well.  We’re certainly not in a sea of clones–but that is what makes it special. 

Lastly, I love watching Sweet Home Alabama because what Melanie discovers is that home is where the man of her dreams is.  Today I was having a rough day, just feeling like that ache for wanting a place of our own, to actually call home, was so strong it burned in my gut.  For whatever reason it just made me so sad today.  On top of that, something else happened that caused me to feel like perhaps our stay here, without a home of our own, would be longer than we’d realized.  At any rate, I felt discouraged.  Mom and Dad were gone, so Jeff and I were just sitting playing with Dutch, and Jeff went over and turned on the stereo and stuck in a CD we’d gottten from a friend’s wedding.   The first song was one he loves to dance with Dutch to, so they danced around the living room while I sat and watched, soaking up the sweetness of the sight.  Then came on the song, You’re Like Comin’ Home by Lonestar, a good ‘ole twangy country song that goes:

Ridin’ restless under broken sky,
Weary traveller, somethin’ missin’ inside,
Always lookin’ for a reason to turn around.
Desperate for a little peace of mind.
Just a little piece of what I left behind:
Well, I found it now: you’re like coming home.

Go head an’ let your hair fall down.
This wanderlust: it’s gone now.
I’m here in your arms; I’m safe from the road again.
These are the days that can’t be erased:
Baby, there isn’t a better place;
You’re like heaven: you’re like coming home.

You’re like a Sunday mornin’, pleasin’ my eyes;
You’re a midsummer’s dream under a star-soaked sky.
That peaceful easy feelin’ at the end of a long, long road.
You’re like coming home;
You’re like coming home, all right.
As the song played, Dutch was happily busying himself with toys, and I went over and curled up on Jeff’s lap, eveloped by his arms, with my head resting on his chest, my face in his neck.  His familiar smell, the sound of his heart, prickle of his face stubble–it all was like coming home.  I just inhaled and lost myself and forgot my silly self-pitying over wanting a place of our own.  He is my home.  Where Jeff and Dutch are–they are my home.  When Dutch was first born, I used to play the Dawson’s Creek song, It feels like Home to Me and sing along while I slow-danced with Dutch in my arms.  I loved singing that song to him while I changed his diaper or got him ready for bed.  Somehow it just seemed right–having Dutch was like home, so perfect and right that it just set my heart at rest.   So yes, it might be cheesy–gleaning life insights from Reese Witherspoon movies and country western songs, but you go ahead and laugh.  I’m going to savor the sound of the river, the cool, clean, country air, the peals of delighted laughter from my son as he plays, and the warmth of Jeff’s arms around me as I sleep tonight.  It’s like comin’ home.