Home(s)

When I was growing up, I went to church camp on the Oregon Coast. The camp has been there for quite some time. For example, there’s a cabin called Shorehouse among trees and trails where the ocean used to meet the shore. The wooden cabins smelled of old, wet wood—probably rot—but I loved it. I started going to camp in middle school and later worked as a counselor well after high school. Every first day of camp, a wave of home would wash over me. Love filled the place, and I just knew the week ahead would be incredible. Over the years, I began to notice a particular birdsong. These birds sang the same melody throughout the day, and over time, their song became an anthem for my time there—in a way, a call home. On damp mornings, they serenaded us as we walked to morning prayer. During afternoon rest, they called us back to our cabins. At twilight, they helped us say goodbye to the sun and welcome the darkness.

Recently, my husband, our children, and I traveled to Oregon to visit family and join in celebrations. One afternoon, I sat in my sister’s backyard, enjoying the sun and watching the trees sway in the breeze—when suddenly I heard it. That same call to home, that familiar birdsong.

Tears welled in my eyes, and a heavy tension inside me lifted. It wasn’t until that moment I realized how long it had been since I’d felt that way—that undeniable sense of home.

Since moving to Iceland, we’ve visited the U.S. many times. Each visit felt different, like puzzle pieces being rearranged. During this recent trip, I became increasingly aware of something missing: a quiet absence, a longing—not just to return to a place, but for a profound sense of love and acceptance to surround me fully. That feeling opened a door in my mind. I began to question what had been lost—or what I still needed. Was that feeling somewhere I could find again? Or was it a trick of my mind, a lie to encourage self sabatoge?

This September will mark three years since we moved to our new home. Sometimes I tell myself it’s going to be okay, but more often, I feel lost. Every day is a challenge to find motivation and purpose. I won’t say I don’t feel loved or welcome, because I do. But home has slipped through my fingers. I wait for it—the feeling, the familiar calling. I feel guilty for not having fully settled. Endless home construction that we hadn’t planned for, the struggle to master a new language, kids constantly talking about missing their old home, my difficulty finding steady work that uses my skills, and a bureaucratic, often disorganized government—it all makes gratitude a daily practice. On days when I can focus on that gratitude and the bigger picture, I feel deep appreciation for what I have. But still, something is missing. A yearning. A sense of familiarity.

While in Oregon, we visited friends and family. We shared stories and laughter, and then we had to say goodbye. Toward the trip’s end, I felt a new kind of exhaustion. I realized I didn’t want to say goodbye to anyone. The distance from loved ones—the lack of physical closeness, hugs, and easy conversation—took its toll. Part of me wanted to break down, to fall into someone’s arms, and show them how much the goodbyes hurt. But instead, I withdrew. I built a wall inside as emotions tried to break through. I told myself I couldn’t carry all of it with me—the people, the places, the feelings of home. At least, that’s what I believed at the time, though deep down, I knew it wasn’t completely true.

What is home? These thoughts and feelings of loss and isolation have become a central question in my life. My kids and I talk about it often—they’re asking the same questions. Increasingly, they call Iceland home. They are settling into our house, growing roots here, and want to be here rather than back in Oregon. Still, we agree that we have several homes. My husband is home. He was raised here, and we live close to his parents in a family house. But the more I talk to him about how I feel, the more I realize: I am his home. His children are his home. Wherever we are, he feels at home—because his roots are with us. (Yes, he really is that wonderful.)

So why don’t I feel the same? Why can’t I get on that train? Why don’t I have the same certainty?

Home is many things. It’s familiarity, safety, love. It’s the people who love you and whom you love back. It’s a place and a building. Home is grace. It’s the quiet reassurance that things will be okay. And I have that. I think most people experience that feeling at some point in their lives—whether fleeting or sustained. When I slow down and focus on what’s in front of me, it can feel simple. But lately, that simplicity has been elusive.

Still, life is just that—a constant conversation. It’s leaving home and coming back again. Along the way, we learn—and most of the time, that learning is uncomfortable. But then we hear the call—the anthem reminding us that home is near. We only have to keep our ears open and allow ourselves to absorb the love offered to us. Maybe I need to listen for a new song. Maybe I need to let that melody fill my world until it’s saturated with love and familiarity again. Maybe then, I’ll feel the calm I’ve been seeking.

Until then, I’ll keep moving—one foot in front of the other—with hope and ambition.

Be well.