We slipped home Friday before last, driving through the pass as the sun set ahead of us, turning the skies and slopes rosy gold. In the usual way of college freshman, I am shaken by defining what home means to me. Having different homes is a rhythm I'm used to, but having one of those being completely separate from my family is new and sets my mind a whirring. I spent the holy week with just a few people very dear to my heart. People who, if I had to choose a family from among my friends, I would point to in the first moments after the question. We've talked and drunk coffee, loved on kids, played card games, eaten waffles and celebrated the hope of new families. I'm trying to put my faith in God's plan for me, and trying not to run Home to Him just as fast as I can without actually living this good, earthly life I've been given. I'm trying to have faith and give Him my fears and find my strength in His love. I'm failing, but He is good nonetheless. God speaks to us in so many different ways, and last week I found His love in kneading cinnamon roll dough, voice messages at two in the morning, and salty waves trying to catch my toes.
Here's a picture smattering of those nine days.
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