Numbers

4: Days until I return to the US
68: Gifts I bought just today
73: Horse flies I killed in my apartment this week (estimation of the new pest in 1307)
4: Visits to the beauty salon this week
45: Minutes I spent in traffic today to drive the 30 minute walk and back to the Internet office
3: Suitcases/boxes already packed and sent back to the US via wonderful people
2: Suticase/box already packed and ready to travel with me back to the US
1: Trunk to be picked up in Istanbul filled with winter clothes (and a drum)
Countless: Goodbyes already said
6: Hard goodbyes left to go
7: Joyous hellos I will say to friends next week that I haven't seen in a very long time
3.5: States (and DC) that I visit in the time span of 6 days.
8: Things left to do on my to-do list
14: Times I almost died (again) in a round-a-bout this week (estimation)
Immeasurable: frazzleness of my brain currently, joy I have to be with family
4/10: Days until I see extended/immediate family

12 days till Christmas!

Flexibility

That's sort of the motto of overseas life. If you're not flexible,
you'll get overly stressed out and have a break down. ha.

So two days ago I paid a rather large deposit on a beautiful
apartment.

Yesterday morning I found out I would NOT move into that
apartment, but would have my deposit transferred to another
apartment in that building that would be available in a month.

This morning I found out the deposit had been returned and we
do not have a spot in that building held for us.

Later this morning I found out I'm not moving at all, but Sparky
is. We'll each live in our own one bedroom apartment, instead of in a
two together.

Flexibility. (And that's not even me telling you all the sorrid details of
how much my job has changed again and again and again until I forget
what I'm doing here.)

If my mood indicator was working, I'd put that I'm grumpy.

Moving Again

My boss flew into town for three or four days to meet with
all of us new personnel that have been arriving over the last
few months. One of the outcomes of the meeting was that the
Sparky and I will move into a two bedroom apartment.
YIPeee!!! So even though I just finally hung wall decorations
two weeks ago before she moved in, I'm back to square one of
apartment hunting.

Was it only six months ago that I did this?

A little more experienced at the process, I at least knew the
right questions to ask and where to look for buildings. There
is an opening in the P5's building, and the manager agreed to
hold it, show it to us first, and give us a lesser price on it since
we are good friends with the P5. We liked everything about it
except that its windows face another building directly. No view,
no direct sunlight...just staring in the face of the tenants next
door. We chewed on whether being in a great building with a
great location was worth the bad view while out looking for
other options.

The process sort of goes like this...

While on the sidewalk, look up at the building and decide if it
looks ghetto, or ghetto-fabulous (meaning shabby or nice).
If it looks nice, you go and speak with the watchman (sort of
like a handyman/guard).

"Hi. Do you have any two bedrooms available?"

The response will either be: "alkdsjfaoidandfei" with a bobble
of the head that looks like yes and no all mixed into one.
(Didn't understand that response? Neither did we.)

Or, "alkdjsoidall fullaoiudoiaosdn." "All full?" We repeat
back to verify. "alkdjsoidall fullaoiudoiaosdn" he repeats
with a bobble head and a twist of the wrist (which I think
means yes).

Six months ago I would have walked away and said thank
you. But oh, have I learned! "When will you have an opening?"

"nfioaalnfoieoand."

"Next week?"

"mdaoieaonkjadjnfaoie."

"Next month?"

"aoidnasdfnext monthadkfaoihdnfoi." Bobble head and
twist of wrist.

"How much?"

"qeionadondoi45,000fnaiwepnsdf."

"Thank you."

What's amazing about that conversation is that the guardman
thinks he's speaking fluent English. Fluent. He thinks he's
being understood. I sort of chuckled at myself and the intensity
of which I've learned to listen just to grasp enough of what
he's saying. Sparky quickly learned why we do the process
on foot and not over the phone. The 1% understood in person is
mainly due to lip-reading and hand motions!

We did find an apartment, and I'll write about that tomorrow!
But as soon as the wire transfer comes in, we're packing up
and moving!

I'm not the eternal nomad for nothing!

Memory

I was on the treadmill at the gym, jamming away with my ipod, when a song came on that sent my memory wheeling.

(Can I interject my own story for just one moment and ask WHO IN THE WORLD from Mallory ever allowed me to have my Long Line of Leavers Cd back? I should still NOT be allowed to listen to it!)

So I was transported back to college days. Reminisce with me...

The end of my freshman year, I walked into the caf, carrying my tray, looking for a place to sit. (Really, is college any different than junior high?) As I was crossing the huge caf, I saw a pair of eyes from across the room. They were so brilliant that they shined through the distance. I sort of froze, and thought, "I could stare at eyes like that forever!" I flashed a smile at the Eyes later as I left for class.

Two days later the Eyes approached me in the caf...and a sweet friendship was born. For the next year, I drooled for the Eyes, and didn't even know it; I thought I just enjoyed his friendship... At some point during my sophomore year, my roommate said to me, "You saw the Eyes this week, didn't you?" I thought about it, and said, "Why, yes, I did! How did you know?" She said, "You've been swooning on cloud nine for days...and you're only like that when you see him."

Well, I took the first semester of my junior year off from school, and figured I'd never see the Eyes again (he was three years older than me). But within a month of being back at school, I saw those Eyes from across the way. Swooning recommenced.

One day, I was hanging out on the Wall, a popular meeting place at our school. (The Wall was a brick, three feet tall edge to a fountain that never ran. Students sat on it's ledge all the time). I was half perched on the Wall, waiting for someone that I can't remember anymore. Up walks the Eyes, and starts talking to me. Before I know it, he asks if I like coffee.

Do I like coffee? Anyone who knows me knows that was either the question of an idiot (which the Eyes was not) or that boy was about to ask me out!

What did I do?

I fell off the wall.

After regaining what composure was left, I responded that I indeed enjoyed coffee very much and would love to go for some with him (he'd asked that as I was making a complete fool of myself). We did go out for coffee--for the rest of the semester.

He was graduating, and made all these plans with me for me to meet his family the night before graduation, and to go out with them that day. And then one of the grandest mysteries of my life occurred: When he was supposed to call to pick me up to go meet his family, he never called.

I never heard from him again.

His sister told me the next semester that he had called--a gazillion times--and that he'd spent the whole summer wondering why I hadn't answered his calls and stood him up. Believe you me, I sat by that phone all weekend wondering why it wasn't ringing.

That was the memory that came back to me today, while I was listening to the Caedmon's song. Not because of the song. I hope you can follow my circular thinking here... the song is true-blue to a situation in my life right now. (Once again, Derek Webb hits the nail on the head!) As I began to think through that situation, it made me recall the Eyes, because of the similarity in the two situations: someone sort of just mysteriously disappearing. It seems the longer I am overseas, the more and more my friends back home just sort of...drop off.

I guess "five thousand miles did break the camel's back."

4th's Fireworks

Nothing out of the ordinary happened on the 4th that worth blogging about. (I mean, ummm...America's Independence is not exactly a national holiday here...). I did have a good day and all, but no fireworks. Which made me think--I could tell you about all my 4th's fireworks.

2004--In India. No fireworks, didn't even celebrate. :(
2003--Working summercamp in the mountains of NC. Some friends drove across the border where shooting fireworks was legal. I chose to sleep, something I hardly did all summer.
2002--In Sri Lanka. Went to the Cricket Club Cafe with the Keefe's (who will be here next month, by the way!)
2001--Had just returned from Portugal three days previously. Was soaking up being with family. Don't remember if there were fireworks or not...
--Not exactly a 4th of July, but when I lived in Portugal, I lived right next to a casino, who shot fireworks off every Saturday night at midnight. So I got my fair share of fireworks, even in not on the 4th!
2000--In Portugal. Couldn't wear red, white, and blue, because the Portuguese were mad at the French for winning some big soccer game.
1999--With my family at the lakehouse just days before leaving for Portugal. I think there were fireworks that time?
1996-1998--Various locations in the South (Atlanta, Virginia). I made it a point to watch fireworks those summers!
1994-1995--In Honolulu...I LOVED the fireworks shot over Waikiki. Who wouldn't?
1993--The summer I graduated high school. I went to Nashville and saw the most amazing fireworks show I'd ever seen...probably when I fell in love with fireworks.
1992--Alaska. No fireworks. Why? Because it's daytime all night on the 4th of July. No darkness to see the fireworks' glory. :(
1991--Summer camp in mountains of NC. Too busy being a teenager at camp to worry about fireworks (in the sky, anyway).
1988-1991--Living near two military bases in Maryland...I'm sure we saw fireworks.
1985-1987--Living in Korea. Don't remember fireworks.

I don't remember much before that. I don't think I saw fireworks in Germany, though, either.

Anyway...I hope your 4th was truly spectacular. I know I enjoyed mine. :)

I fought the law and the law won

On my way back into the country, I'm standing outside a trailer home in ghastly temperatures. (I thought MY country was hot! It had to be near 120, and the wind was blowing so hard it pulled my hair out of the clip. I mention the wind, because my colleague later equated the wind there to trying to blow dry your hair in Africa. Blowing hot air in the heat is horrid. HORRID.)

All around me are these rocky mountains that look like the kind of place that Osama could be hiding...or Yoda. Heat, creepy mountains, guards with guns, and lil ole me. To my right is a Pakistani family dressed in typical Pakistani fashion (long, flowing, dark colors). To my left is an Afghan man dressed in typical Afghan fashion (long, flowing, cream colors). Behind me were some other Muslim men in their typical wherever-they're-from fashion (long, flowing, white colors). In front of me, and American man in jean shorts, bright red shirt, and a BYU baseball cap. Typical American fashion, I guess... but standing out as a sore thumb to be sure.

I'm waiting patiently for him to finish his business when I realize he's having trouble. He states that he didn't realize that when he left the country, he would have to acquire a visa to enter the country on the other side of the border (which would cost about $100+ for his whole family, behind me in a van). He just wanted to exit the country, get his exit stamp, and come back in to get a new entry tourist visa (which, in this country, is free). The passport control police man nicely explained that in order to exit, one must enter somewhere else, which in this case means the country on the other side of the border, which requires visas. The American explained that he didn't know that when he left this country, he doesn't want to buy visas, and he simply wants to come back in. The passport control police man nicely asked the man to step aside. Uh-oh.

I step forward, sweating a bit that I, an American, am having to now follow that American's prelude. (I don't know how familiar this passport control is with Americans, but seeing how I'm surrounded by Central Asians, and nobody speaking English, it's just a little odd that this man had to go right before me...) I smile and hand the passport control police man two passports: mine and my colleague's (who is in the air conditioned car, lucky girl). He works on hers, scans it, stamps it, and sets it aside. He begins to work on mine when the guard dealing with the rowdy American asks for the family's passports.

The passport control police man picks up the six, and my colleague's, and moves to hand them over. I, in a quick panic, reach my hand through the window (mistake number one) and say, "Wait! That's my passport!" (mistake number two). He holds up my passport, looks at the picture, and reads my name. "Is this you?"

"Yes. But I have two passports." (Mistake number three).

Can I interject here while all of you are reading and wondering WHY I was so stupid to say "I have two passports" to the passport control police man? This all happened within a very short, quick time span in which all I was concerned with was getting my colleague's passport back. And I was standing in 120 degree heat, with a migrane headache, and an obnoxious American causing a scene right beside me. I was trying to act cool and non-descript. And in doing so, made a very bad grammatical slip.

The passport control police man sits down, leans over towards the window, raises his eyebrows, and says, "You have two passports?"

"No. I have one passport. That one. (I point). I gave you two passports. The other is my friend's. (I point to the car.)" He takes the top passport off the pile, opens it, looks at the picture, leans over to look towards the car, and proceeds to give me a look that says, "you're lucky, lil girl..."

I scurry back over the car as quickly as possible to drive back to our city away from passport control. Something I didn't write about last week is that I almost did something last week that could have landed me in jail. So in the span of one week, I've danced on the outskirts of the law twice. I might be singing a different tune if I don't start paying attention.

Another great nomad quote

There is a saying that one should "Trumpet among the elephants, crow among the cocks, bleat among the goats." For a man traveling in a strange land it is good advice...

The people were strange to me, and I to them, and in many languages the words for stranger and enemy are identical.

My armor was battered, my clothes nondescript, but my horses were of the finest, although disguised somewhat by their winter coats. My sword was of the best, and in my pocket there was gold.

Yet a man is often betrayed by his heart, and lout that I am, I am often taken in by those who plead, by those who suffer. It is a wise man who tends to his own affairs, but who is wise always? One is betrayed by his own memories of hardship.

--Louis L'Amour, The Walking Drum, pg.229. Good stuff.

Bored

I've noticed sometimes that people think we expats who live overseas have these amazingly exciting lives.

Perhaps because they've taken a vacation in a foreign country, and those 10 days were very exciting.

Or perhaps they read blogs like mine of expats living overseas...who post every few days (or weeks) about the interesting things that happened at the post office or grocery store or park by our house.

And granted, these exciting things do happen. The level of interesting and exciting is probably higher than average living overseas than it would be living in one's own country. HENCE WHY WE CHOOSE TO LIVE OVERSEAS.

But I would like to note this: not all days are exciting and interesting. Something spectacular doesn't occur every day. Some days, like today and yesterday and the day before, are ordinary days that are even a little on the boring side.

Wake up, coffee, check email, quiet time, work, wish the call to prayer would forever end, lunch, work, again wish the call to prayer would forever end, work, boredom, dinner, go out to the movies, shush the call to prayer one final time, read a bit, go to bed. That's one boring day.

Such have been my days this week. Maybe I should leave the country soon so as to have something to write about... (Or just go to the post office!)

Country Roads

John Denver came on my ipod today while I was in the kitchen. I stared out the window at the Industrial district of my town--complete concrete jungle--but my mind took me back to Virginia, where I went to college. My eyes could see the beautiful, rolling hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the plush green of trees that grow naturally (and not with the help of massive irrigation), and the pale misty fog that would come in each morning.

As I listened to that song play (and for some reason, it's been playing alot recently), I felt very American. Red, white, and blue American. Sweet tea and apple pie American. Go Yanks American. I've pondered that feeling all day long.

You see, in the last few days, I've been spending alot of time with TCK's (Third Culture Kids)--kids, who are being brought up overseas because of their parents' jobs. Most every time I've ever spent an in-depth amount with TCK's, they've lived in one country their whole life, and returned 'home' to the states every few years for a visit to family members they hardly know. But the TCK's here are alot like me: they've moved every couple of years. I had five of them over for dinner the other night, and we reflected on all the places we'd lived.

Germany, Korea, Portugal, Turkey, Kazakhstan, Afghanistan, Costa Rica, Venezuela, Thailand, Azerbaijan, Cyprus, Russia, Hungary, and Iran.

Languages fluently spoken: Russian, French, Spanish, Farsi, Kazak, Azeri, Greek, Portuguese. (Myself excluded, the average age in the room was 13).

Not a single one of us in the room had lived in this country for even a year. The next day at a business meeting with some of their parents, we discussed realty problems in this area, and how all of us will more than likely have to move within the next 18 months. The parents moaned in sorrow of having to replant their children again.

I thought of all this today as I heard John Denver belt away...

Almost heaven, west virginia
Blue ridge mountains, shenandoah river
Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze

Country roads, take me home
To the place, I be-long
West virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads

All my memories, gather around her
Miner's lady, stranger to blue water
Dark and dusty, painted on the sky
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye

Country roads, take me home
To the place, I be-long
West virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads

I hear her voice, in the morning hours she calls to me
The radio reminds me of my home far a-way
And driving down the road I get a feeling
That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday

Country roads, take me home
To the place, I be-long
West virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads

I don't know where HOME is, but somehow I understand what ole John was singing about, and would like to take a ride on one of those country roads.

But home is most currently 1307 in the building above the post office, and the only country roads around here lead to the desert where camels rule. Is there a way to adequately explain the dichotomy in my heart of understanding HOME, and that I have left it behind to make a new one elsewhere? If there is, will somebody ask John Denver to write a song for me about it?

Country roads, take me home
To the place, I be-long
West virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads

4 Stamp Day

I love passports. I love looking at all the stamps in them, how unique each one can be. There's always some kind of story behind a stamp, and every person's story is different even if their stamp is the same. Today, I got four new stamps in my passport! Here's the stories behind the four stamps...

Stamp #1--Exit current location

We drove out into the desert, realizing it'd been a month since we'd last seen the sand dunes. Entirely too long in my opinion. As we were sailing along at 120 kph, I was deep in my most current book. I looked up suddenly when Mark slammed on the brakes and Val gasped in panic. A camel had sauntered onto the highway, oblivious to the damage he and our car would inflict on one another. He pulled his lips back over his teeth and spat his road rage at our car.

Stamp #2--Entry new country!

We pulled into an oasis hotel and conducted our business meeting at it's outdoor cafe. Surrounded by palm trees, exotic flowers, and a refreshing breeze (and longingly overlooking a gorgeous swimming pool), we laughed at how most people consider all our countries of business the home of terrorists and the makings of our weapons. No terrorists here...only tourists. I commented to my boss that we ought to schedule a company retreat out in this oasis sometime in the next few months. He asked what was wrong with the really nice hotel about 20 minutes from my flat.

"I'd like to get away to somewhere where I don't hear the call to prah--" The call to prayer began 'allah akbaring' (as I like to say) right at that moment. No such luck to escape the call anywhere in these parts.

Stamp #3--Exit new (to me) country

We'd left the desert and passed into mountains. Rocky mountains they were not. They reminded me more of the desert mountains in Star Wars, where Luke Skywalker first met Obie Won and learned to use the light saber. I kept expecting some kind of droid to climb out of the nooks and cranies of the rocks.

Droids I did not see, but a DIRT DEVIL I did! Not the vacuum cleaner, but a 'dust devil,' is probably the more accurate term. Remember the Tazmanian Devil? The swirling craze of dust? One of those! Like a tornado, but without the clouds in the sky. A funnel cloud of sand, moving its way along the side of the road. Fascinating, really. Why it happens, I just don't understand.

Stamp #4--Entry current location

Camels must not be smart. The road rage must not have scared off some guy in a Hummer (or other large SUV), because we saw roadkill on the way home. No average squirrel or armadillo, it was either one very bloated goat with a long neck, or someone took out a camel and kept on truckin.

Just an average day of work in the life of the eternal nomad.
New Country Total: 22

Saudades

If I had a magic genie that granted me three wishes, am I allowed to wish to become Jeannie on 'I dream of Jeannie?' I'm not cheating on the wishes...I just want to be able to fold my arms, blink my eyes, and all the packing to be done! I guess I could wish for that, but then I wouldn't be able to wear the cute outfit.

My boss and two coworkers are traveling to my new place in a week, and have graciously agreed to carry some of my stuff down. So I now have two and a half pieces of luggage. And someone loaned me a scale that weighs in kilos, so I've been able to check my packing. One is just under 20 kilos...perfect. The other--still working on it. The rest has to be left behind until I return to Istanbul some day...

There is something about packing up everything that stirs up the soul dust of this eternal nomad. Memories of all the past packings flush the mind and drench the mind's eyes with the faces of all those left behind, all the good byes said in times past. It is easy for the nomad to say goodbye and walk away without looking back. It is not so easy, in the confines of a small room, surrounded by the few things that are needed for life, to see that the journey is still walked alone, with not much more than a knapsack over the shoulder.

And so the sojourn goes.

Moving!

I love rain.

But I'm ready for it to go away and allow the sun to shine on my face. Good thing I'm moving to the desert. Did I mention that? I'm moving to the Arabian Peninsula. ACK!

I found out yesterday that my airline will only allow ONE piece of luggage that weighs only 20 kilos (a little over 40 lbs). I came to Turkey with four 70lb pieces. Packing ought to be interesting. =)

Poor Suitcase

Poor Suitcase. I think he was beginning to feel settled, make friends, get comfortable in his hidden away spot. Like a sloth, he didn't want to be moved or used or anything. He wanted to get some rest. But alas, he lives to the will of his master, the eternal nomad. And nomads have to stay on the move, correct?

So the trend continues. Since last March, I have not been anywhere longer than 7 weeks. San Francisco, Georgia, San Francisco, Alabama, San Francisco, Alabama, Georgia, Alabama, Georgia, India, Georgia, Alabama, Tennesse, Alabama, Texas, Colorado, Alabama, Virginia, Alabama, Florida, Alabama, Turkey...

And tomorrow I fly to Germany. Where poor suitcase will not even be unpacked, but left open and exposed for three days. Then I fly to England. Where poor suitcase will not be unpacked either, but further exposed for three days. Then I fly back to Germany, spend the night, fly back to Turkey. Three countries in six days. No wonder my suitcase is staring at me with sad and angry eyes.

The eternal nomad sojourns on...

How long will the honeymoon last?

"As the waters cover the sea, so the whole earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord."

This verse tumbled through my mind this morning as I rode on a boat to the other side (Asia). It was my first time to venture across continents by myself (hehe, when will I get used to that?), and I delighted in the time alone on the quiet boat staring out at the water and the city on a hill behind it. It seemed as if I'd lived here forever, so natural was it to me to walk up to the dock, press my akbil into the machine (a card-holder machine, if you will), and board the boat. Somewhere between buying lamps yesterday and riding a boat alone today, a change of mind occurred.

I've been in transition for so long that this just seemed another quick trip, as if I'd be packing the suitcase again soon enough. When would I feel settled? When would I feel my roots digging down? When would I enter the honeymoon phase I've heard of for newcomers, instead of seeing everything through eyes and heart of one who does not belong to this place?

On a boat on the Bosphorus two weeks after landing, I suddenly awakened to understand. This is home now. Boats, trolleys, trains, the metro, taxis, cars and buses are my mode of transport. Walking five miles a day and up four flights of stairs is normal. I pump my water, eat sandwiches on the street for lunch, smell of second hand smoke regularly, and use a hot water bottle to warm my bed at night. This is my life and this is my home.

All because of a boat ride by myself.

October Cotton

I have bruises on my feet from tripping over my suitcase.

You'd think I'd put it away, and yet I've been living out of it since at least May (maybe earlier, it's hard to remember anymore). I also have blisters (big ones) on my heels from wearing closed shoes for the first time since at least April. I figured since I would spending the fall in Virginia, I can't get away with my flip flops on a daily basis anymore and ought, therefore, to warn my toes. I should have warned my heels...

The trip this last week was to Opelika, Alabama, neighbor to the great town of AUBURN. War Eagle. It is amazing how quickly one can learn to incorporate that phrase to their vernacular. I donned my orange and blue for a week, wishing I'd chosen years ago to be a part of that tradition. Maybe I'll go there for my doctorate.

For a few days I was a southern belle, Scarlett for the 21st century. I drank sweet tea while sitting on the back porch of my cousins house, who is so far out in the country I was denied cable television, internet, and cell reception. They took me out for my birthday to the Good Ole Boys Restaurant, and asked if I wanted a cow bell rung in my honor.

As I looked at the fields of cotton that is ready to be picked on my drive home, I thought about the snow I'd seen the week before. October Cotton is the closest Alabama gets to seeing snow on a normal year. (Let us not forget that snow is so rare in the Dixie state that Scout Finch thought the sky was falling when she first saw it). I'd like to return some day to Alabama in October to go to the Syrup Sop Fest in Loachapoka... or maybe just to find that quiet spot on my cousin's back porch.

But the suitcase must move on for now.

Snow and Sojourning

I woke up this week to find a half a foot of snow on the ground. In September.

The only time in my life that I have seen snow in September was a freak storm in Alaska in 92. (Wow, that was a long time ago!) This week, I excitedly phoned my friends and told them it was snowing. "Where are you?" they'd ask. Colorado. "Oh." No shared excitement over the snow. Sure it snows in Colorado alot--but not in September. Nor am I from Colorado to see normaltime snow, much less abnormaltime snow.

My friends, remembering who they were speaking to, asked another question. "When was the last time you saw snow?" Ahhh...The mind reeled back to the places I'd been and lived in the last few years. Southern India (no snow), Northern California (no snow), any state on the Gulf of Mexico (certianly no snow), Portugal (no snow in Lisbon anyway)... Hmmm...Could it really be that the last time I saw snow was Christmas of 99 in Brussells? Has it been that long? Perhaps that is why I was so excited!

The snow melted with the sun that afternoon and was gone as quickly as I tend to be in one place. I boarded a plane the next day, leaving Colorado to go not home, but simply the next place (where there will be no snow either). It seems I never get to go home, always simply to the next place. The Portuguese call it caminhado...my friend in Northen India calls it being a nomad...others still may say sojourning. My soul twin (who I visited in the abnormaltime September snow of Colorado) and I, we just know that we're never quite home.

Yet.

But like Abraham and others of the Hall of Faith, perhaps I am just looking for a bettercountry... home... heaven... Him.