Back Home

I thought it would be spring when we stepped out of the plane, but the steady sunshine and heavy humidity had us all shedding coats like used snake skins. The air smelled familiar. A mix of dust and pollution, oil frying, and the welcome scent of blossoming flowers. Carrying our bags and children like sacks of potatoes, we jammed into two tiny taxis and headed for home. I made small talk with the young taxi driver in shy Hindi and a familiar pit lodged in my belly. The head of a goddess glued to the mantel bobbed as the driver swerved from cows and oblivious pedestrians. The air felt good on my face. The stores squished along the roadside proudly presented plastic toys, brightly colored blankets, metal cookware, and fried samosas. People sat around with masks hanging off their ears and sipping clay cups of milky chai. Others walked slowly, rhythmically, balancing grass, bricks, or mysterious bundles upon their heads. I looked back at my kids crammed into the velvety back seat and grinned proudly at them. Their eyes were large and observing, their jet-lagged bodies staying awake with precious resilience. 

We entered our home, greeted warmly by friends who delivered milk, eggs, and other necessities. We hugged tightly and I felt embarrassed by the smell and sight I must be. The house was all still there after an entire year, which I should have noticed and thanked God for, but all I could take in was the dust and mold and the lack of homey luster. I went to my closet and shed tears over the chores I did not want to do. Thoughts of America and its glorious cleaning wipes and rotisserie chickens lodged in my brain like a prickly sticker in your shoe. I wanted to collapse on the bed and shut my eyelids tight enough to block out the overwhelming world on the other side. However, I could hear my kids’ ecstatic shrieks as they reunited with their favorite stuffed animals. I wiped my tears and prayed a single, “Help me, Lord.”

And He did. Our house is still grimey in places, but it smells like cinnamon rolls and moves with life again. When I go outside, my breath is taken away by the beauty of this place and at the very same moment, my insides ache at the foreignness of it all. Minnesota feels lightyears away. I’m drawn in by old Bollywood tunes playing outside my window, the mountains that change color with the time of day, and the sweet-faced women carrying bricks with babies on their hips. Simultaneously, the temptation to taxi back to the airport and find my fellow Scandinavians is real. 

I had forgotten how loudly the dogs bark at night and how murderous my thoughts are towards them. I had forgotten how common water problems are and the time it takes to put food on the table. I don’t want to throw poopy toilet paper in the garbage or eat beans everyday for lunch. 

I had also forgotten how extravagantly people fill your plate and heart when you visit their home, the pace of life that always has time for chai, and how my kids transform into carefree mountain goats while hiking in places surreal in their beauty. I had forgotten how the Bible becomes real food and drink, and that without it I end up curled into the fetal position on my bed. I had forgotten the genuine laughter I share with my house helper and the feel of her leathery hands in my own as we sit close and lament over how long it’s been. 

I’m home, but not home. While I’m lonely for a place that feels wholly right, I’ll pin my Father’s words in front of my eyes: “And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” (John 14:3)