The kids and I made a trip to my hometown today to visit with my Mamaw and my Aunt Diane. 

I grew up there from the time I was in 2nd grade until I graduated from high school.  It’s officially my hometown.  I have heard many people over the years talking of their hometowns, the ones they spent their childhoods in, the ones they love to visit, to reflect and share memories. 

We live in my husband’s hometown.  He’s been telling me stories of his growing up years since we were dating.  We’ll be driving down the road with the kids and he’ll start telling them how he remembers wrecking his bike on that steep hill or be able to point out an old friend’s house. 

I didn’t leave my hometown on good terms.  I had a stormy, dramatic senior year that ended in loss of friendships that had grown since we were 8 years old.  Familiar faces, homes and families became distant and silent before I packed the first box to move away to college. I think that is one reason I decided to just shut it out. If someone asked me where I was from my outward reaction was evasive and brief, but my inward reaction was a curling of my lip and a cringing of my soul.  I had been wounded deeply by that town.

It turns out, though, that no matter what town you are in, there is going to be hurt and disappointment along with joy and success. 

I decided today that I wanted to show my kids where I grew up. My house and neighborhood, the state park where I played and swam and hiked.

Seeing it through their eyes, hearing their excitement and questions, was a healing for my heart.  As I drove around the neighborhood, past the seven tall oak trees and the neighborhood pool, I said to them “I was a very blessed little girl. I got to explore these woods, swim in that pool, ride my bike to my friends’ houses.  I had the best neighborhood”.

For the first time, in a very long time, it really did feel like my hometown.