where we belong

What becomes home? 

One of my favorite lyrics from any Bob Dylan song comes in 'Mississippi', a tune he wrote later in his career (Sheryl Crow also did a great cover). The song shambles and shuffles along, jammed full of evocative imagery. But then it drops this line: "You can always come back, but you can't come back all the way"

I love that lyric. Profound brevity. It captures an entire truth in 13 words.

The entire truth is this: some eras and places in life get so intertwined into us -- who we were when we were there, and whenever we resided there -- that when we leave, it's as though a bell rings and something changes, never to change back.

And of course, no one can unring a bell. 

What we call 'home' will change. 

Pragmatically speaking, I can still walk the halls of my high school. But of course, it wouldn't be the same as when I -- as a teen -- hustled from my locker to class, or to lunch, or to the bus. It was a home for me then, but that time is long time gone. I can always come back, but I can't come back all the way.

Where becomes home? We feel at home sometimes in life, uprooted during other times. If we stand in any place for enough time, we can't help but allow home roots to creep into the soil beneath us. We instinctively want to make a home out of wherever we are.

Depending on who, how, and where we were before college, college can quickly feel like a home -- where we can be ourselves (or a prototype of us), a foretaste of what's ahead. We find places. We live eras. We bond with people who love us as we are, even when we don't know who we are. We catch glimpses of what adulting can bring.

While senior year usually marks the peak high school experience, I'm convinced the college peak version of this is the junior undergrad year.

College senior year feels something like a concert encore: it's beautiful and often fun, and a joy. But everyone's also reaching for their car keys, thinking about getting out of the venue, and what's next. The show's almost over. 

By senior year, people get reasonably distracted by the array and approaching deadlines of possible next steps: graduation, looking for a job, figuring out a relationship, graduate school, year of service, marriage, now what?, maybe moving to a new city. It's not to say senior year can't be marvelous. It certainly can be! It just takes a lot of time to live in the moment. The senior year seldom affords that kind of time. But junior year -- that's a sweeter spot.

So to those who aren't sure where home is since coming to college, that's not just you. Home can be hard to find, and that's normal. The feeling of exile spreads through more human hearts than we might think. College tastes like that bizarre appetizer of some what comes next. Parts of the appetizer will make you believe you've arrived home. You may not be home, but you could be stealing glances of your future. How invigorating!

Home can be where you're from. It can also be more than that. It's a refreshingly elastic term. You don't always need the clear sense of where home is. Sometimes home finds you.

Your hometown could be called a home (if that's what you want). Yet while you're in college, going back to that place will feel like you somehow can't go back all the way. It'll be missing people and the faces of your peers. Something's different.

Can't unring the bell.

"So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord, for we walk by faith, not by sight." -2 Corinthians 5:6-7

Songs About Home 

things fall apart

When I started college, I was trying to make a long-distance relationship work. For me, that meant I was at college only physically, and barely mentally. My energy, focus, and heart remained where I had been, working to maintain what was.

During a public speaking course that first semester, a classmate gave a speech on the shakiness of long-distance dating.  I still remember her words: "Presents aren't promises, and kisses aren't contracts." At the time, I brushed this off as pessimism. The presents in MY room told a different story, I assured myself. The letters I received, and mailed back home only strengthened this resolve.

It'll be no surprise to share that my long-distance relationship didn't pan out -- didn't even last the entire first semester. It devastated me the Tuesday night we broke up. I wondered why this had to happen, asked God WHY ME. I was heartbroken, angry, confused, strung out.

I called my parents. I called my friends. I took a long walk. I cried myself to sleep. Focusing on schoolwork took so so so much more effort.

Fear of the unknown can slyly motivate us to hedge our bets. I'd never before experienced such a life change as transitioning to college. I felt apprehensive about making new friends, joining clubs, or embracing the unknown. It seemed like everyone was adjusting way easier than me.

So rather than make new friends or try new experiences, I spent nights alone in my room, counting down the hours and days until I could return home to see her. I hunkered away, and hustled to keep up with had been more familiar. My new life kinda scared me.

For me, coming to college while dating someone from home was *a way* to deal with the angst unknown of starting college (it's of course not that way for everyone, but it certainly was for me ... and maybe for some of you too). 

[For the record, one of my best friends did marry his high school sweetheart -- but their journey followed no linear path. They dated in high school, broke up before college, went to different schools, lost contact with each other, then randomly reconnected at the tail end of college, and got married later. They didn't plan it out, but it is what happened, and they remain happily married]

Sometimes, when God suggests or compels us to let go of cherished parts of our life, it's to make room for what's to come. Baby teeth must first fall out of the mouth before adult teeth take their place. It can feel wrenching to have to let go, and even more agonizing when the letting go isn't what we'd choose -- or how we'd choose it.

In the short run, it was a long, awful night to endure when it it fell apart.

And yet. 

It pushed me forward and forced me to connect in the present place where I was living, and not where I didn't live anymore. The best parts of that year at school for me all came after that relationship ended. In the long run (and even in the short run), it turned out more than fine.

"He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose." -J. Elliot