We got mostly better; we saw some of the people we wanted to see, though far from all; we made our return journey; we are home. The only excitement on the trip home was when we were driving from the airport and I was trying to figure out how to apply sour cream from the squeezy package to my Wendy's baked potato. I aimed inaccurately and wound up shooting sour cream across the windshield, instrument panel, steering wheel, and DOB. In his fatigued state, DOB was most perplexed as to why cracks started appearing across the front of the car and simultaneously I started laughing hysterically.
It's good to be home. It's even better to be able to look forward to being home. Last Christmas, neither of us wanted to come back. The only thing that made us do it--besides the threat of wasting plane tickets--was the hope that perhaps we might be able to buy this house and get out of the apartment. This time, we had much to anticipate upon coming home: a house, a church, our family out here. I realized while out there that I was even a little homesick. I even missed the corn fields. It seems like there were a few too many trees in Washington.