I Want to Go Home

Has anyone ever died from nostalgia? Were they so caught up in memories and reveries that they just burst open on the spot? I was driving along a particularly unattractive stretch of road that connects Harrisburg to the Pennsylvania Turnpike this morning and, I swear, it left me breathless. And not because of the tricky merge along that route, but because of the memories of driving home from Susquehanna and, a few years later, driving home from visiting my friend Ben. Something about seeing "Swatara" on an exit sign had me undone. (For the record, I've never been to Swatara.)

As I left the unpleasant road and proceeded east, I was driving through Pennsylvania farm country. The sights, the smells, and suddenly, I was missing my grandfather. (For the record, my grandfather was not a farmer.)

And so I found myself, as I often have lately, thinking about home. When I first moved to Carolina, it was still easy to call Philadelphia home. My parents were still there in the house where they'd raised us and I was able to make frequent visits. When my parents joined us in Carolina, the visits North became fewer, but it hasn't stopped feeling any less like home.

Which leads to the next series of thoughts...maybe I'm supposed to come back? And as soon as I think it, I'll see a face--Katie on a morning jog, Shannon in the classroom next door--and I'll think, "How could I leave?" Or I'll throw my Tim Keller book (that I'm studying in my awesome home group!) in my reusable bag (that I got at the State Fair with Emily!) and come into Panera to write a blog (that Tracey will read!).

I think my conflicted feelings about home are illustrating a spiritual lesson I need to learn. As Christians, we are called to hold dual citizenship: we belong here in the world, but we also belong in Heaven. As long as we are here, we aren't truly home. If I'm trying to find home in Philadelphia or North Carolina, I'm never going to be satisfied.

At the risk of sounding like a nerdy Presbyterian, I will quote C.S. Lewis, “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

I suppose that means I should enjoy my weekend--the time with friends, the opportunity to buy Tastykakes, the memories that surface when I behold the mighty Susquehanna River. I should also be happy to go back to Carolina, to my comfortable house, to my circle of friends, to my overstimulating gym. What I must remember, though, is that neither of these places are where I'm ultimately meant to be and that my desire should be for something much bigger than an earthly home.

After One or Two False Starts

Laura and I are good planners, thus we are good travelers and even better travel partners. Both fed up with the structure and demands of our day-to-day lives, we decided to blow off some steam and head to the coast for a relaxing weekend at the beach. Our plans were set in sand, not so much in stone. So what happens when good planners cut loose?

Upon arriving in Carolina Beach we drove around to scope out restaurants. Finally settling on Havana’s, we got a table, opened the menus and realized we’d been had. High-top tables on a deck do not always mean casual dining. With nothing on the menu under $18.95, we scrambled out of the restaurant and back to the car before anyone could take our drink order.

A few laps around town later, we found The Dive. The help was not quite helpful when Laura asked what to do about getting a table, although our waitress really hustled once we were seated. A man with a banjo wandered through the place, picking aimlessly while his bluegrass band warmed up. The couple across the way had a rip-snorting fight while the cook shouted out to anyone who’d listen that he was working as hard as he could but there was no way he could keep up with the demand.

Bellies full, we proceeded to Carolina Beach State Park. Turns out “Park closes at 8” doesn’t just mean the staff goes home, it means the gate is locked. We parked outside the gate and walked along the entrance road a ways, wondering if it would be possible to get to our campsite on foot, but the empty darkness of it all was a little too scary for me. I was on Hotwire on my Blackberry before we made it back to the car. Too many Dateline pieces about hikers being lost/slayed in parks sent us back to Wilmington in search of a decent hotel deal.

Another 45 minutes of aimless driving passed until we happened into the Red Roof Inn that boasted “Great Last Minute Deals” on its sign. Great is probably something of an overstatement. The deal was mediocre, but it was 11:00 at night and we were done driving around with no destination.

On Saturday, we wanted to welcome the new day with a run on the beach. After making sure we got our free continental breakfast, we headed toward Wrightsville Beach where there was a triathlon in progress. So we sat in traffic, played “Don’t Stop Believin’” loudly to inspire the athletes riding/running alongside the car, and eventually arrived at a parking lot.

The next part of the day went very smoothly. We had a good run/walk, got back to the Red Roof for quick showers and checkout.


Next stop: the USS North Carolina in pursuit of Charlie the Alligator letterbox. No sign of Charlie, so we headed over to Oakdale Cemetery in Wilmington. We didn’t have a map to find our letterbox, but how hard could it be to find our way around a cemetery? Once Laura called her dad and had him looking at the map on his home computer, it wasn’t very hard at all. Mr. Eck helped us find the 400 unmarked graves of malaria victims, and from there we found a letterbox with a fun mosquito stamp. Since we were in the neighborhood, we also checked out David Brinkley’s gravesite.


From there, it was smooth sailing. We loved our lunch at the Front Street Brewery and took a lovely stroll along the river in Wilmington (just like Dawson and Joey). We logged a few late-afternoon hours on a Wrightsville beach, parked next to another Phillies fan/Susquehanna alum. After de-gritting ourselves from a windy day, we stopped at Rita’s where I enjoyed a Krimpets water ice. Three hours later, we were back in the ‘boro.

It was a fun weekend. It wasn’t as relaxing as I’d imagined, but it was good to be unplanned and unscheduled. It was good to think about things unrelated to my routines and to be on the road with Laura.



On our road trip playlist was the Jimmy Buffett song "Coast of Carolina" and we found these lyrics oddly appropriate:

From the bottom of my heart
Off the coast of Carolina
After one or two false starts
I believe we found our stride

And the walls that won't come down
We can decorate or climb
or find some way to get around