Thirteen years ago this eve. we were at friends’ house for dinner–friends I’d never met before. They live beside the sea, and were ever so gracious, and afterwards all of us went to their upstairs room for prayer meeting, and I cried during the prayer.
It was my first day in Ireland, and everything was green and moist and foreign. Now it’s 13 years later, and this is home.
I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived at any other place, so maybe that’s why it feels like home. But I’m still a foreigner. As soon as I say a word, my accent gives me away, and people know I wasn’t born in Waterford but am a ‘blow-in.’ And when I go back to the US, it’s always most enjoyable and happy, but I feel like a foreigner there too. I forget the American terms for ‘tar macadam’ and ‘foot path.’ And when I want to drive somewhere, I tend to head toward the wrong side of the car.
So I really am not home yet. Because next week I plan to move into another house, but even that won’t be Home, Home.
Even after 13 yrs in Ireland, I’m Homesick tonight.