For When You Can’t Go Back Home: A Eulogy
Mountains have always felt like home to me.
No matter where I am in the world, no matter the mountain range, they sing to me. They call me home with the sweetest of lullabies.
It's always been this way, and it's especially true for this particular range of mountains, stretching from Pennsylvania to Georgia with their rounded, well-worn tops. My Scotch-Irish ancestors felt a similar connection to these ancient hills that reminded them of their home across the sea.
And so they settled here centuries ago.
It seems this deep connection to the Appalachian Mountains has been passed down like an heirloom from generation to generation. No matter where my family moved when I was younger, we always found ways and reasons to return to Appalachia. Sometimes it was the backdrop for family reunions, and more times than not, we lived in these mountains or near enough that they were kept in sight.
Before we became parents, my husband and I moved to a beautifully aged, European city. Its streets were perfectly flat which was great for bike-riding and strolling around the city. It was an ideal place to live and work with all the romantic parts of Europe in a small, non-touristy city.
But I found even after living in that beautiful city for four years, my heart and my roots were still in the mountains. They've always pulled me back--pulled me back home.
My husband and I have since moved back to what was our home before living abroad, nestled amongst the bluest mountains. After our daughter was born while still living in Czechia, we made the decision to move back to these hills for her sake. They had always given us a solid place to live and grow, somewhere to be rooted, and we wanted the same for her.
This quaint, little town we now call home once again is not well-known, despite feeling overrun with tourists when the leaves change colors in the fall. Still, it's rather quiet and hasn't changed that much.
But it has changed enough.
Yes, the mountains are still there, seemingly never changing.
But we quickly discovered, upon moving back, that the town had indeed changed during those four years of living abroad. The people living here had changed.
And most impossible to ignore, we had changed, too.
We expected this small mountain town to still feel like home after being away for so long.
We had hoped and fully expected everything, including ourselves, to be just as they always were.
But one of life's hard truths is this: You can't un-change. You can't un-grow. You can't un-evolve.
And we, my husband and I, had evolved.
Our faith and long-held beliefs had evolved, too.
We had moved to Czechia as missionaries, leaving our cozy bubble where we were surrounded (mostly) by people who looked, talked, behaved, thought, and believed just like us.
We were fueled by the dream of changing the world, but we were the ones most changed by the experience.
Being saturated in diverse perspectives in this foreign culture led us to the arduous task of deconstructing (taking a long, hard, and discerning look) at our long-held religious beliefs. These religious beliefs were something else that had been passed down through the generations, somewhere else we had always found home.
We could no longer ignore the gnawing questions. The questions that had been there all along. The questions that had been so easy to ignore while living in the Southern Appalachians, the Bible Belt of Western North Carolina.
But we were no longer living in our religious and ideological bubbles, and we quickly found ourselves questioning why we were there in the role of "missionary" in the first place. We questioned what we actually believed about God and ourselves, questioned the things we had always been taught about being "good Christians."
We evaluated nearly every brick of the foundation that we had built our entire lives upon.
We learned. We grew. And our faith grew, too, if not in the way we expected.
And growing is, oh, so painful.
We were forever changed by this experience, for good or bad depending on your own perspective. And we weren't sure how to feel about it either. I'm still not sure how to feel sometimes. Sometimes, I so wish I could just go back to the way I was.
And believe me, I've tried.
When we decided to return to Western North Carolina, I had some pretty big and impossible hopes. I had this unspoken expectation that we would move back to the United States, get reconnected with our old friends at our old church, and everything would be fine. Just fine. It would all go back to normal.
I was certain of it.
But that was one of the biggest changes of all; I was (and still am) no longer certain of anything.
Even still, when we moved back, I quickly settled back into my old role as a worship leader at our church, and I tried to ignore the discomfort that I felt. Tried to pretend I still carried the exact same beliefs as the others singing on that stage with me. Tried to ignore the sense that I didn't belong there anymore.
I pretended that I was still certain.
I pretended that it was still home.
But the warning whispers in my mind and body turned into screaming alarms. And as much as I prayed and wished everything would go back to "normal," it didn't. I stayed far too long trying to change myself back into an earlier version of myself. And when that didn't work, I started trying to change others.
But people are not projects.
And just as much as you can't un-evolve someone, you can't force them to evolve either.
And eventually, this led me to the painful decision of walking away from the church building, a place that I had called home for as long as I had called the mountains home--for generations.
We change. We grow.
And when we grow, sometimes, we no longer fit in the places we once fit so perfectly.
And if we choose to stay in these places after we've undergone such a transformation, the only option is to shrink ourselves or contort ourselves into shapes that aren't anything like the person we actually are.
And If we listen to that inner voice that we all have inside us, the voice that whispers the truest of truths, we can hear it say, "this isn't home anymore."
And so the place to which I have always felt such deep connection, the place my ancestors have called home for centuries, where I've always felt rooted and grounded, where I've always been able to return after my wanderings, where I've always found comfort, safety, rest, belonging—it’s not my home anymore.
So what do I do now? Where can I go, if not here? Where is home for me now?
Caught somewhere in the tension between what was and what will be in more ways than one, I'm standing in this unfamiliar place, the land of the in-between.
I've heard it called no-man's-land, and that feels appropriate because it can be the loneliest of places. There's no one there to guide me. No one there to answer my questions or make decisions for me. There's no certainty or stability to be found except within myself…
And many times that feels like the shakiest of ground.
Nothing like the steady, sturdy mountains that have always kept me rooted and grounded.
My mind drifts to the past, getting stuck in mental loops, overthinking, regretting, what-should-have-beens and what-could-have-beens, if-onlies, and more.
I wish I could go back. I think, "maybe I can go back. Maybe I should go back."
But I know I can't…
I can't move forward either.
I'm still clinging too tightly to a home that no longer fits--like a baby bird that is no longer a baby, no longer fitting in its cozy nest, knowing full well it's time to fly and make a home of its own, but it stands on the ledge of that nest wishing to be ready, wishing it could be brave enough to leap into the great unknown, waiting for the fear to subside.
But of course it never does. That isn't how bravery works.
True bravery, true courage requires feeling the fear and doing the hard thing anyway.
And it seems that "hard thing" for me in this moment is the loosening of my grip on what was…
The Letting Go.
And this letting go means digging up deep roots, loosening my grip on something I don't want to lose, the home or homes I've always known.
It also means letting go of the person I expected to be. Even though that person is just a shell of who I actually am, a shell of who I want to be, this letting go feels like the death of a loved one.
And so it is a grieving process.
Letting go does not mean I am abandoning who I was; she's part of me and always will be. Instead, it's about working towards reconciliation of all the parts of who I am…past, present, and future.
Letting go is leading me to belong right where I am, to accept who I actually am and not a smaller, less-intrusive, watered-down version…
After all, those mountains I so love never apologize for who they are. They never apologize for their size, their strength, their beauty.
And I won't apologize for being who I am either. Not anymore.
None of this is about forgetting or abandoning my roots. They're much too strong for that.
On the contrary, I believe it is about creating space for growth by taking off the restraints that force us to grow in a certain direction like those stabilizers used on new trees to guide and support growth. However, there comes a point when those stabilizers hinder growth. As the tree gets older, it needs to be allowed space and freedom to grow organically.
And that’s something else I won’t apologize for anymore either–growing. It’s an important part of being a living, breathing human.
And even though I’m not certain of where I’ll be planted in the future, for now, I’ll choose to be rooted here. Now. Right where I am on my journey.
Right here in the land of the in-between.
And maybe you're here with me. Here in the land of the in-between.
Perhaps you're having to let go of something, too.
Maybe it's a spiritual home.
Maybe it’s some ideologies and beliefs you used to cling to unwaveringly.
Maybe it's a job that you thought was your calling.
Maybe it's a friend or relationship that is no longer serving either of you.
Whatever your case may be, one thing we have in common is this: home doesn't feel like home anymore.
If this is true for you,
I'll remind you to breathe.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
And then breathe again.
If only to remind yourself that you are still living even if you feel like the opposite.
Letting go can feel like death.
But we are a resurrection, as Scott Erickson would say…And in order to resurrect, we have to let go of what was, and perhaps release the need for certainty of what will be, and I'm not sure which is more difficult.
But I know we have to start with the letting go of what was.
It isn't home anymore. It can't be.
So because we can't go back, I invite you to take part in this Eulogy, and you may find yourself wanting to write your own. Perhaps you have your own things to grieve. For now, you can borrow mine:
A Eulogy for Letting Go:
We gather here today to offer our final goodbyes and to honor the memory of who we thought we were, and the spaces and faces we used to call home.
Goodbye to the safety and support we once felt, surrounded by people with the same mindset and perspectives. Our perspectives have shifted and grown with us, and we can't unsee or unlearn what we've experienced.
Goodbye to the expectations and approval of people who only knew us before and who have chosen not to continue on with us on our journeys, and goodbye to the ones we had to make that choice for.
Goodbye to the boxes we fit in so neatly and the comfort we felt there.
Goodbye to the shrinking or contorting of ourselves to fit in those boxes. They can no longer hold who we are, and they certainly can't hold who we are becoming.
Goodbye to home or what we used to call home.
We must make our own home now.
We will miss the people we once were. We will miss the home we once had, but we can't go back.
Goodbye to the could-haves, the would-haves, and the should-haves.
To what could have been, if only…
Goodbye to the regret that keeps us imprisoned. That can't be home either.
Goodbye to the shame for having changed, evolved, and grown. Growing and changing doesn't make us a failure.
Goodbye to certainty.
And hello to the journey ahead. Hello to growing organically and unapologetically. Hello to being rooted right here, wherever we are on our journeys.
May we find home or learn to make it along the way.
May we find comfort, safety, rest, and belonging, too.
And may we recognize that we always carry this one thing with us: and that is love.
Love is something that has never left, something we never outgrow because it grows along with us. Those roots we've had to dig up? That's love--a home we carry with us wherever we go.
And may we learn to embrace that love. May it continue to grow as we do. May it be our guide as we learn to love ourselves right where we are and as we likewise learn to love others.
May we continue our journey with open hands, not only to let go of what was, but in order to receive hope of the beautiful things to come.
May we hold on to hope, and when we can’t hold on any longer, may we find that hope is holding us.
I mentioned Scott Erickson in this post. If you don’t already follow @ScottthePainter on Instagram, I invite you to do so. His art and words have been welcome companions on my journey for the last year or so. Here’s his website: https://scottericksonartshop.com/ where you can find links to his art, show information, books, and more. The quote I mentioned above is from his book Say Yes.
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