It's sinking in. This isn't a vacation. It's not a trip. It's permanent, at least for the foreseeable future.
This is home.
But it doesn't feel like home.
And there's not a thing anyone can do to help. People are nice. The church has folks who have gone above and beyond to help and welcome us. We've gotten involved. But it just doesn't feel like home.
It's a process, I suppose. Something that only time can do. They say home is where your heart is. And a large part of my heart is here. But there's a piece of my heart in two furry critters in Michigan, one of which is still in the pound. And there's a piece of my heart in the green mountains of the Appalachians.
Watching my children struggle has made today especially difficult. I was unpacking a box and unwrapped a family picture, and I showed it to Ladybug. Usually, I'll point out family members and she'll try to say their names. Not today. She sat in my lap, held the picture, and didn't say a word. And in her own toddler way, I think she was missing them.
I can put pictures on the mantle. I can meet people. I can unpack boxes and hang up clothes. I can stop making wrong turns.
But can I accept this place as home? In my heart, not just in my head?