When I feel homesick, I often don't pause to really think about it. I'm afraid that I won't be able to stop and that the feeling will become who I am, and not just how I feel.
I thought that my husband and my children were my home and that if I was with them, then anywhere would feel like home. A bit Danielle Steel-ish, I know, but nevertheless, that's what I believed. It's been a rude awakening for me that although I love them more than anything, they can't fix this.
As a Christian, I feel constantly guilty that God isn't enough for me. I know that He should be, I know that if I let Him, He would be, but I don't know if I am capable of that.
I know that if I was a more balanced, self-assured composed sort of person, then I would be enough for myself, but I'm not, so there!
When I do allow myself to really think about it, about this overwhelming feeling it is the memories that come flooding back.
I remember getting home and my Bjornie running to greet me his tail thumping against the door of the car. Opening the door to the house and feeling peaceful as soon as I walk in, the smell of lemon polish and lavender.
I remember making my kitchen perfect for me. Cooking old favourites and conjuring up new inventions. Showing Hannah how to make pancakes and cleaning the flopped flips off the floor.
I remember my bedroom with the curtains billowing over my bed in the breeze and the bathroom tiles that Paul and I laid. I remember painting the children's rooms in anticipation of their births and I remember soothing them to sleep in my arms, laying them down in their cribs and trying not to step on the creaky floorboards on the way out of the room.
I remember Noluthando making me a cup of tea when I have a headache and sitting on the edge of my bed chatting to me.
I remember the sounds of the children in the garden, playing, running, black plastic bikes on the driveway.
I remember the house full of moms and kids on Wednesday mornings, cake mashed into the carpet and sticky handprints on the walls. I remember praying with weeping friends, being prayed for myself, warm arms around me and tears falling with mine, or laughing so much I couldn’t breathe.
I remember all the beds full of kids on House Church nights, their legs all tangled together, and then, their warm sleepy bodies snuggling into their dads’ chests on the way to the car.
I remember decorating the Christmas tree, hanging the wreath on the front door to welcome friends, singing along to Christmas carols .
I remember the sound of Helmut working in the garden on Saturday mornings, alternating between whistling and muttering under his breath because Paul won’t let him cut the grass down to its roots!
My dining room table was always a mini-workshop - beading or painting plates with friends, decorating cookies and cupcakes with Ab, the table groaning under the weight of rows and rows of freshly baked quiches, cakes, biscuits. It was the scene of stork parties, dinner parties, birthday parties. It was where Hannah learned to read and write, it was where Nathan had his first taste of strawberries, where we sat every evening as a family, thanked God for our blessings and ate our supper, together.
I realise now that my home was me. If you walked in the door you saw me in the décor, tasted me in the cakes I baked, saw me reflected in the photos of my children on the walls.
I was the colour of the walls, I was the smell of baking in the air, I was the cups and saucers I used for a tea party.
I understand now that my home was so much more than just my house, it was an outer reflection of my inner self. I know that one day I will have a new home that I love, I am just not done yet mourning the one I have lost.
