Homeward Bound

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,

then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,

go to the limits of your longing.

Embody me.

Flare up like flame

and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.

You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

-       Rilke’s Book of Hours, I, 59

The first pangs of homesickness hit on March 29. In retrospect, the reasons were obvious—starting with my presence in Austin, Texas, a city that bears striking resemblance to Portland. I spent my first morning there with John Springer, a friend from Portland. I also happened to be staying in a campground adjacent to a freeway, which was terribly loud—evoking a longing for the peace and quiet I associate (rightly or not) with “home.” And the wildflowers blooming everywhere were a striking reminder that this is the first Portland spring I’ve missed in 35 years.

A few days later, the fact that I passed two historical markers without an ounce of curiosity was another indication of my readiness to wrap things up. If I’m lucky, the oil change in Texarkana on April 6 will be the RV’s last one on the road, and it won’t need any further servicing until after I reach Portland on the 29th.

Since leaving Texas on the 7th, traveling north has been like going back in time. At each state border, the deciduous trees lost a full shade of green. They were dark in Texas, medium in Arkansas, light in Missouri, and just beginning to crack their buds in Illinois. By the time I reached Minneapolis, it was winter again—complete with snow on April 21.

Arkansas was an unexpected surprise—and not just because it was warm. While I had planned to stop in Little Rock, my original intent was to go from there to Memphis and Nashville, then on to a wedding in central Illinois. But I was advised to head north through the Ozarks instead—which took me into Illinois via Branson and St. Louis, Missouri.

The change enabled me to visit an old friend in St. Louis and a new one in southern Illinois. It also served up four other treats: Petit Jean State Park in Morrilton, Arkansas (where I narrowly escaped a huge thunderstorm on my return hike from Cedar Falls); Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas (the building is as impressive as the collection—and it’s free); Thorncrown Chapel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas (the loveliest church I’ve ever seen); and the Missouri Botanical Garden in St. Louis (which was just beginning to show its spring colors).

The flexibility has been nice. Another ten years would also have been nice, because that’s how long it would take to see all the equally compelling places I’ve missed! As it turns out, I never made it to seven states: West Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, Kansas, Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Iowa. And I only briefly passed through four others (Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, and Washington) on my way elsewhere. A year doesn’t do America justice. But for now, I’m happy to be homeward bound—because what I miss most is my family and friends.

That reality was prominently underscored during the wedding weekend in Bloomington, Illinois. It was extraordinary—not because it was elaborate, but rather because it was so simple, so authentic, so full of life and love.

The bride, Mary, is my college roommate’s younger daughter—the fourth of Joe’s five children. I had last seen her six years ago. And it had been 21 years since I’d seen Joe and Patty’s other four kids—Tom, John, Karen, and Jim—so this was my first experience of them as adults. Joe and Patty also have three grandchildren, who I met for the first time, and a fourth on the way—just like me.

It was wonderful to watch the five siblings engage so affectionately and playfully with each other and with their grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins and friends. The reception was a spirited family reunion—and the love was hardly limited to the bride and groom. The joy was most conspicuously embodied by 20 children under the age of 10—who claimed the dance floor hours before the adults were ready to join them.

“We are so busy looking for the big signs, the revelations,” writes Eric Weiner in his book, Man Seeks God, “that we miss the smaller ones, the glimpses of the divine that, collectively, might add up to something very big indeed!”

The wedding was just such a glimpse of the Divine—and a fitting reminder that, having fulfilled the limits of my longing, I’m ready to return to my own loved ones—those in whom the Divine has long been most evident.

Wherever it may be and in whatever form it takes, home is, for many, a slice of heaven on earth. And a very big one indeed.

(Rapid City, SD)