Distance.
A
year ago, I didn’t want anything more than I wanted distance. Distance from
childhood, distance from familiar things. I thought distance meant freedom and
independence. I thought it meant a beginning, not an end. And of course, I was
right. All of those things are true in a sense. But that doesn’t mean it’s
easy. After moving away from home and being on my own for these past few
months, I finally know what distance tastes like. And while I definitely enjoy
it, I miss life without the distance.
Thanksgiving
was last week, as you all know. Normally on Thanksgiving Day, I would be in the
kitchen with Mom for a good portion of the day helping her prepare the dishes,
or bustling around the house trying to get everything clean. Normally Dad would
be cooking the turkey, boasting on and on about how it will be the best turkey we’ve ever had. Normally
boatloads of family are in town, aunts and uncles and cousins and my
grandmother to name a few. Normally everyone is together and all is well.
Distance
has a way of rewriting what “normally” means. Things change. Plans differ. New
faces emerge. Old faces disappear.
This
Thanksgiving I was able to be with my aunt’s family in Vegas. I don’t know if
we’ve ever spent Thanksgiving together, but if we have, I don’t remember it.
But this time around was wonderful. The break from school was much needed, and
my aunt’s family gave me a dose of family time that I desperately craved. There’s
just something about being with your own flesh and blood that breathes new life
into you. I had no idea when moving away from my family how precious spending
time with relatives can be.
That
being said, over the holiday, I had a lot of time to reflect on the true
meaning of Thanksgiving and all the beautiful things in my life. I am so
grateful for my parents. I miss them so,
so much.
I
miss Mom’s pancakes. I miss Mom’s hugs before driving myself to work. I miss getting
hooked to TV shows and watching four in a row with her.
I
miss Dad’s omelets. I miss Dad’s crazy sounds. I miss how chatty he can be. Really,
he can stretch a two-minute conversation into an hour-long conversation. Ask
anyone.
I
miss my sisters, especially my babies Bailey and Bethany. I miss sharing a room
with Bailey like we did in those last few months. I miss scolding her and
bossing her around. I miss jamming out to music in my car. I miss my Betty-o. I
miss our late night talks. I miss waking her up early in the morning and
talking for long periods of time. I miss spontaneously surprising her with a
trip to Sonic for breakfast.
I
miss my big sisters, Ali and Katie, as well. I miss Ali’s stories and advice. I
miss Katie’s silly inside jokes.
Distance
is overrated. Growing up is overrated. Family is all that matters in this life,
and I have since come to find that family is always the goal. I am constantly
looking forward to seeing them again. Everything I do, even now while trying to
get my nursing degree at BYUI, is in hopes of returning to my family when I am
done. Family is always the goal.
Upon
returning to Rexburg after my vacation with my aunt and her family, I couldn’t
help but remember the song “Temporary Home” by Carrie Underwood. That’s all
this place is for me. It’s an adventure being here, with all the friends I’ve
made and the things I’ve been able to do. But it isn’t home. Home is where the
heart is, and the heart is with family. And family is always the goal.
