My Home and My suitcase

I'm visiting home right now. But I'm home only in the sense that "home" is place where I grew up or where my parents are. However, having moved around for the last three years and having grown to love and feel at home in places even after only a few days, I've decided there must be an explanation for this phenomenon: I have started carrying home in my suitcase. Somewhere among the underwear, the toiletries, and too many pairs of shoes, I packed the feeling of my own bed, my mother's warmth, my father's humor, and the tendency to be just a little more accepting and comfortable within the four walls of my own home where I'm not distracted trying to fit in or feel at home. This explains why I love Istanbul as much as Laie and how I slept just as soundly in Jerusalem as I do Oracle. And you know, I'm going to tell that to the next airline person that weighs my bag. "Of course it's over 50 pounds! Have you ever tried to take home with you from Hawaii to Arizona to Utah to Israel and back again? Of course it's heavy!" I just hope I remember to restock on some things while I actually am "home home". I can't forget mom band-aids that make any ow-ie better whether it's a scraped knee or wounded pride, or my dad's advice that always takes up a lot of room but tends to hold to answers to all of my problems, or the faith and strength found in the creaky floor boards of our trailer that are a testament of the life and love constantly happening in our home. And even though sometimes I'm not sure if I can fit it all in, I'm learning that packing "home" will always be worth the extra weight. Because then, even when I'm far away, home will never be farther than a zip and open away.