Dorothy Gail said it best when she closed her eyes and tapped the heels of her ruby slippers and repeated; “There’s no place like home.” To Dorothy, home was Auntie Em and Uncle Henry’s farm. Even though Oz was warm and familiar, it just couldn’t compare with her life in Kansas.
Throughout my life, I have had a much different perspective. As a child, my family moved several times. Each time we landed in a new place, we were able to build a new home and our extended family grew to include new friends in each dot on the map. My adult life has continued along that same path, first as a Navy family and most recently with our move to Central Virginia. Always open to new members, our family is constantly expanding to include more and more friends. This ability to nest almost anywhere leaves me with the mantra “There are no places like homes.”
This past weekend we made a quick trip to Virginia Beach, one of our longest homes, to join many of our St. Mark’s family in bidding farewell to a very special guy. Known as “The Guitar Dude”, Mike was a quiet gentle force in the St. Mark’s choir family. He was a gifted musician and composer but will best be remembered for his warm heart and his dedication to his family and friends. There was no way we could choose other than to forget about our own to-do list and make the trip to say goodbye.
Over the course of the weekend, we visited several of our other homes; the McMican household where we’ve spent countless holiday meals with Bill, Patricia and our extended St. Mark’s family, The Peking Duck Inn, where Simon and Julie always welcome us and gift us with a special dish and the Conner home, where Dave and I have had such great times with Dave and Vanya and occasionally I have laughed so hard that tears ran down my leg. But of all our homes in Virginia Beach, the most special is The Catholic Church of St. Mark.
I joined St. Mark’s way back at the end of the last century. We had just bought our first house and the kids were reaching an age where I wanted them to start attended Mass regularly. Dave wasn’t Catholic yet but it wasn’t long after I dragged him to St. Mark’s that our pastor, Fr. Joe Clark, discovered that Dave was interested in singing and introduced him to the choir director. He was hooked and joined the church a year later.
Over the course of our first years at St. Mark’s, we became so entwined in the community that after the Navy took us away for six years, when we received orders to go back, our main prerequisite on where we would live centered around our proximity to St. Mark’s. Returning to our church family made moving back so much easier, especially since both kids were in high school at the time, not the best time to uproot and move. Having our community welcome us back into the fold made the adjustment much easier.
As I stepped into the Great Hall yesterday morning, I felt like Rip Van Winkle, the place hadn’t changed significantly, it looked pretty much like it did when we left. But the children I knew three years ago were remarkably taller and in some cases had transitioned to young adults, there were new babies; babies of people I’ve known since they were babies. Sadly, there was also the noticable absence of the faces that were missing. For the most part, the feeling was much the same as entering my mother’s kitchen; warm and welcoming me with the feeling that I really belonged.
It was also exhausting. There were so many people to catch up with; it was almost like speed dating as we attempted to exchange as much information as possible before the next new face caught my eye. I worry that I may have cut some folks off mid sentence as I drifted on to the next, a by-product of my ADD. For a few hours my mind felt like my office floor looks, with fragments of conversations lying about in total disarray. I spent most of the four hours back home in the car quietly sorting and filing them in my head. And like my office floor, I’m certain there will be a bit of information I’ve tucked somewhere that will pop up sometime later.
I wonder why it takes something as significant as friend’s passing to break us out of our routine to spend time with those we feel such kinship with. It certainly isn’t for lack of caring. If we weren’t separated by 100 miles or so on I64 and the dreaded HRBT, I know we’d be there more often. But more importantly, because of the distance, I think probably the reality is that as lifelong home builders, we are busy building our new home, tending to our newer family members as well as remaining open to adding new members. It’s just what we do.
Best of all, the way I see it; the super-rich maybe able to boast that they own many houses, but I consider myself much richer to be able to boast that I have many homes. Take that Dorothy!