"Home"

Exhausted but excited. Worn out but wired. We were on American soil. We stepped out of the airport tram tired from 24 hours of travel, and as we walked into the domestic terminal where we would board our final flight "home," the smells and sights of our dear homeland hit me. "It smells like weight gain." I said to Kate. She didn't understand. Her metabolism still functions at a high level. But between the smells of cinnamon buns, doughnuts, cheeseburgers and, fried chicken, I could envision myself staring down the gauntlet of shopping for new jeans. But even that would be ok, because I was now in the land of clearance racks and bargain shopping.

I suppose I didn't know what to expect landing in our passport country. We've heard reports about so much hurt and fear from so many people. Our news websites keep us updated on the marches, the riots, the fighting over flags, the decreased moralism, the selling of babies' body parts, and the racism that was supposed to be extinct by now. And when all you hear is bad news, you set your expectations low. So many ask, "What is becoming of our country?" I guess I was asking it too. But upon arriving in Atlanta, I didn't see hate. I didn't see fear. Maybe my eyes were clouded because of the extreme exhaustion, but what I saw was the same America I have always known and loved.

I saw people helping one another get through the airport. I saw smiling faces and helping hands from all races. When we finally sat ourselves down on the plane for our final flight home, I saw two men jump up to help a woman, not from their race or background, put her luggage in the overhead compartment. I saw an older woman give her number to someone she saw carrying a sewing machine she had inherited from her dying grandmother. "Call me. My name is ... I will help you learn to sew. Really anytime day or night. Call." Perfect strangers making connections and forming community. Genuine smiles. Kind words and gentle helping hands. This is my country. These are my people. I am proud to be here and count myself among them.

I'm not always proud of us. We're a country full of imperfect people. We're broken and lost. And those of us who have the Truth can be so ridiculously self-righteous and so painfully unforgiving. We don't always listen and we don't always welcome the broken and hurting into the same sea of grace that we have been washed in. But the strong black hands that lifted a white woman's large suitcase above her head spoke that very thing. Grace. And it was beautiful and slightly reassuring. I do realize the darkness is still ruling and the pain and fear are still real, but in the nitty gritty moments (i.e. the airport, because... really) I saw a somewhat strangely united America that I don't even think I would have noticed last time I was here.

We are certainly happy to be here where customer service is an actual thing and where we can enjoy family, friends and even the genuine smiles and kindness of strangers. There's football, falling leaves, family and food! We're enjoying the beautiful rolling landscape of our gorgeous state. We are cherishing every solitary moment with family. And church. Man, I love going to church! Balm for my heart!

But most importantly, I'm not sweating. Hallelujah!