At last...

I was driving home from work yesterday. The evening was a beautiful one. And as I turned onto Cottonmill East into the old neighborhood, I passed good ol' Brother Woodbury on his little motorcycle. We both smiled and waved, and I headed up the road to park next to the big pine tree. For the first time in... well... a very long time, I felt like this was home.

Now, I spent the first 19 years of my life in this town. A blessed 19 years. And I've been back now and then for a few months at a time, but my life was always elsewhere. It's taken me a while, obviously, to settle in again, psychologically. To embrace the fact that I am here. I am not a missionary in Montana. I am not a student, roomate or friend in Logan. I am a sister and a daughter in my home in Washington. That is my place for now... and this is home.

I am grateful for the different phases of life and the endless lessons to learn. I'm thankful for the still small whisperings of the Spirit that reveal the profound nature of even the most minute details and happenings in life. I am glad to be here... in this little house... with people who love me despite me.