I’ve been thinking about home lately. I was talking to friend, and I’d remarked about how I was just the type of person to be hard to please, and prone to depression. My friend is a chiropractor, so he laughed and said an adjustment would help. And it did, after I got over the cracking noises (tension is a scary thing to hear come out.)
I’ve learned in my case, it is a misnomer to call my version of depression “depression.” As I was laughing with my friend, I asserted I am just ‘chronically nostalgic.’ (How can anyone be depressed, anyway? If you “de-” something, it means you undo it, and with the “press” root you have something pressing on you. If you are “depressed,” you should be relaxed more than anxious. Semantics, people! It should be something like dexapressed, where you have 10x the amount of “press” on you at the moment, or something like that.)
But while I was being my usual charming self, full of wit and general funniness, the seemingly flippant remark of being ‘chronically nostalgic’ hit home.
I love going home.
Home is where they take care of you, even when you can take care of yourself. And it’s where you go when you can’t take care of yourself.
Home is the place where someone has surrounded you, put up a barrier, and promises to take care of some of the worry for you.
Home is the place for new beginnings, familiar faces, and where the changing and unchanging reside.
But even more than that, it is a place of rest, acceptance, and respect.
I’m generally a strong person. I’ve battled depression/dexapression before, faced terrible foes along the way to building my dislike for the public school systems, dealt with irritating people who were more worried about being self-righteous than being right. I’ve been that person too, of course. I can get my laundry done, clean up my stuff, and give the appearance of a good, clean-cut overall good citizen. I take care of my pets and my kids and my family, and even my friends sometimes. I know very well the attention, the detail, and the care needed for reaching into the heart and soothing all fears or worries. It is exhausting. But it is something that will always be needed until kingdom come. Kind of like lawyers and healthcare workers and prisons.
Since I know what it is like to give care and rest to others, you’d think I’d have an easier time of accepting it. Plot twist: I don’t. But the moment I get there, and I see my mom, because of course my mom carries home with her, I am able to admit to myself, I wanted this for a long time. I wanted to return. It was like the pain was pointing the way back all along.
Isn’t it amazing, how the future and the past are intricately woven together in our lives?
If you are having a hard time right now, I would encourage you to find a home for yourself. Your home might be a bit different from mine. At least, I am pretty sure the topic of diarrhea will come up less often at your home than it does mine. But the important things remain the same: you find a more lasting sort of comfort, the ability to rest or relax, and the opportunity to be no one but yourself, mess or no mess, or even two or three messes if you need to be.
We all have an instinct for home, and that’s part of the reason we are drawn to heaven. But I think it’s also possible to draw a bit of heaven down to earth and let it seep. Wouldn’t it be great to find out in heaven, that we are able to see we had some of it all along?
Here’s to all of us who are chronically nostalgic.