Mackenzie Standing

I'm home. It feels different to associate that word with this place. This place holds no memories. This place holds few friends. This is not the house I grew up in. This is not the bedroom my mother and I (well, mostly mom) spent hours painting. I've never skinned my knees here; I've never spent hours playing Monopoly with my brothers here. This is not the room in which I've grieved, praised, grown and prayed. Yet it could be. It's going to be. I think the hardest part is that "home" isn't so much a place as people. That's what hurts so much; it's not that I'm 567 miles from a place, it's that I'm 567 miles away from these hearts that I cherish so much. I'm thankful, though, for the small ways I can bring these people with me. I'm thankful for the pictures that line my new bulletin board, filling my eyesight with images of those I love. I'm thankful for postcards in the mail. I'm thankful for the comforter on m

I don't understand the word "goodbye." Saying goodbye isn't a happy affair, at least in my world. Saying goodbye means watery eyes and blotchy cheeks, a wet pillow and a headache, hugs that you never want to let go from. Saying goodbye means you won't be getting any sleep tonight. Saying goodbye means that a chapter of life is over; no matter how well you keep in touch, the truth is that the relationship will never be the same. There's nothing good about goodbyes. I've never been one to like change. My mom likes to laugh about the time that she had to take me to the doctor to be tested for OCD when I was young, all because I found a freckle on my thumb. It was change, and it scared me. I ate the same sandwich for lunch every day all through elementary and middle school. It really rattles me when our family gets new furniture. I like consistency. I like dependability. I'm comfortable here and I don't see the need to change it. So these goodbyes