I’m sure homesickness is a considered a real mental disease by some psychologists. It certainly does hit some people harder than others. I think I’m on the low end of this mental disorder. I have bouts of it, but it goes as quickly as it comes. I’ve realized this weekend, though, that it’s a little hard to be homesick when you’re not sure where home is.

I was talking to a friend in New Hampshire this weekend who told me she couldn’t wait until I got home for the holidays and could we get together then? As I won’t be going home to New Hampshire for the holidays, a cup of coffee together might be a little bit difficult. But don’t get the idea she’s crazy to think New Hampshire is my home. I think that, too. You don’t know how often I almost ask my mom or one of my siblings how someone in New Hampshire is doing as if they saw them yesterday. Or I think I will be flying there for the holidays and can see my friends. At church yesterday, I had another twinge of homesickness for New Hampshire. The choir sang Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven during the offertory – and they sang it “the right way”. Which means they sang ladies on the second verse, men on the third and everyone on the chorus, first verse and last verse. We usually sung it that way in New Hampshire.

But then some days I’m homesick for my family which I know is in Indiana. (I can’t say I’m exactly homesick for Indiana – although at least it’s cooler there!) I miss walking into a house and being greeted by dogs. I wasn’t there when Abby earned her learner’s permit this Saturday and Grace posted a sign on the driveway that reads “Abby’s Speed Limit: 5 MPH”. I miss my pale purple bedroom (bright yellow isn’t very similar…). I especially hate living in a room with no bookshelves and only about a hundred books piled on my floor or bed frame.

I’ve often thought it quite unfair that I can never really be homesick. That’s because my home is always changing. Nine years in New Hampshire was a record – now it seems I’m on the road again. In fact, I calculated up the other day that I am now averaging a different address every two years again. I wonder what its like to have a home for a long time – and I wonder if I would like it.

So, I go through my days humming the old gospel song I used to listen to as a kid:

This world is not my home; I’m just passin’ through…

And some days I can’t wait until this passin’ is over!