Home, Sweet Someone Else's Home

My mother used to joke that when she got too old to live by herself, she would visit each of her four children for three months each year. At the end of three months, they'd be so tired of her, they'd pay her airfare to the home of the next child. At the end of a year, it would be time to return to the first child's home.

That pretty well describes my life since returning to the U.S. I arrived in March and stayed with my brother in Michigan for three months undergoing diagnosis at the University of Michigan Hospitals. In June, I transferred to Virginia and stayed with colleagues at my home church for another three months. Next I moved in with friends I've known since high school. Now I'm in Missouri for three weeks visiting a couple I grew close to while in Senegal (and whose daughter was one of my most delightful high school English students).

I'm very grateful for all this hospitality, and I'm thoroughly enjoying spending extended time with all these folks. In fact, I'd like to visit more family and friends, but it takes so long for me to recover from the exertion of travel that it's not practical at this point.

For now, I lull myself to sleep by repeating, "There's no place like someone else's home. There's no place like someone else's home. . . ."