Most of my thoughts lately have been consumed with my upcoming move back to my hometown. I’m excited, and sad, and scared. I’ve been gone 10 years, and I feel I’ll soon learn exactly what that old adage about “never going home again” is all about.
All of my friends have already returned to their home towns; and some of them never left at all. I felt resistant to moving back for a long time because I was afraid to lose all the growing I’d done away. I still feel afraid I won’t be able to bring the “new Lacey” back to the place where everyone remembers the old Lacey. But of course, there’s a deep comfort in being around those who know the old Lacey, too.
Today, I reflected upon how I will only attend a few more services in my parish here before I move, and my sadness was deeper than I expected it to be. Recently, I’d begun exploring another church, but today I knew with certainty that I wouldn’t go back there. I’ll spend my final Sundays in Duluth with Catholicism.
Despite the fact that Catholic churches are often too big and too family-oriented for me to feel really part of the parish community, I can no more deny that Catholicism is my spiritual homebase than I can deny that my parents’ farm is my physical homebase.
Somehow, I feel that I will always be in search of that perfect homebase that fully knows and understands all of me. Perhaps I can find peace at last by simply acknowledging that there is no real home here on earth, but only with God. Perhaps the constancy of Catholicism is exactly what I need as my life goes through another transition; and because life is nothing but a series of transitions, I’ll probably always need the comfort of ritual and routine. And despite my struggles with Catholicism, it has always been the first step for me in finding my way home to God.