I just returned from a glorious week stateside. I got to travel all alone to my home. I am from small-town Texas. I love it. I got to go to a high school reunion, a church reunion, ride in a parade (which made two loops through town), sing my old school song, and sleep in my childhood home. I saw old friends, old babysitters, old Sunday School teachers, and old pastors. It was so wonderfully cozy and warm. As I return to my family in Budapest, I am thinking about that word “home.” What will my children go back to when they get older? This is especially on my mind as my first will leave the nest next year to attend university in the states. Life here is so fluid. The community is in constant flux.  Even if the Lord does keep us here, will there be any “home-ness” for them?

I have always been a tradition lover, but traditions take on a whole new meaning when you are raising third-culture kids. Sometimes I don’t feel like dragging out those decorations for a season or making those cheese rolls at Christmas that my kids love, but I must. I must create some continuity in their lives that they will never experience geographically. It is what gives them the feeling of home. I think about that as it is now past time to get out the pumpkins  and buy the mums for outside.

So for Thanksgiving, we will have our same family friends over, all share reasons we have to thank the Giver of all good things, pray, eat too much … and get up early the next day to watch recorded college football. Home is because we are together, doing what our family does, going through this unusual adventure God has for us together.

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