Homecoming

 One of the great joys of parenthood is when your child comes home. It doesn't really matter where they have been, just that they are home. Sometimes it can be from school and you were worried when you sent them out the door, about their friends, their tests, their work. Sometimes it can be from an outing and you were hopeful things would go as planned or as they imagined. Sometimes it is from their first job and they walk through the door exasperated and exhausted and you can cook them something and they feel better. Sometimes it can be from college and you are so grateful to see them again and hold them in your arms. And sometimes it can be from very far away after a very long time and they are transformed from when they left you. And you have to pause and say, Oh my goodness. Who is this? Where have you been? How are you? How are we now that you have this new story to tell? 

This week Matt got home from Alaska, after 40 days working as a fishing quality control monitor on a boat in the Naknek River. And he is different. When we picked him up, spotting him in the midst of the nighttime crowd in the darkness surrounding Newark Airport, he raised his arm when he saw us over rows of cars and taxis. The joy of that image is still with me. He was wearing a hoodie and carrying two huge bags of gear and he had a beard, the kind that is patchy and not quite full even after 40 days of not shaving. And he had a big grin because he was happy to see us but I also think part of it was that he knew how happy we were to see him. I couldn't hug him long enough - long enough to know he was solid and sure and good. That's the worst part about airports - there should be a Hug Lot, like the cellphone lot, where you can at least get a good hug in before having to rush out, dodging cars and traffic so you don't hold anything up. Anyway, we hugged long enough for me to know he wasn't the same nervous kid we had left off at the Philly airport weeks before. He was new. New for all the reasons you can imagine. For meeting new people. For trying new things. For learning new ways. For the sheer fact that he had traveled so very far. (He was closer to Russia than he was to our house!) 

As Matt sat and told us the tales of his adventures and showed us pictures on his phone from his boat, from a float plane he traveled on to Katmai, from a hike he took in Colorado on his way back home, I couldn't listen. I listened, but I couldn't pay attention. I was flooded with the images in my own memory of him as a little kid, fishing at Grandfather's. Of him climbing mountains and hills when I was there to see that he was safe. Of him and his best friend setting trails in the nearby woods so they could ride their bikes over jumps. Of him going off to college and then returning home because the school wasn't the right fit. And I couldn't believe this was the same boy, the same one who is now using words like galley, and crane and hold and cargo and weight checks and temperatures and RSW, which is Refrigerated Sea Water, in case you want to know, in telling us stories of another world, one I will never see. The one who is telling us about eating some bad fried food just before a storm sent 40-foot surges of water up over the boat, making him seasick that one time. The one who is telling us about people he's met and will hopefully stay in touch with, who he plans to see again next year. The girl (is it Caroline?) who calls and tells them what boat to get on next and where to go. And I can't collect all the details, it's like my mind is too full of these images and ideas and I'm trying to place him there and yet keep him where I knew him best.

It's hard because I can't keep up and yet I can't shut down the memories and yet at the same time, I just want to take him in. I want to remember the chiseled features of his face. (Did he eat enough?) I want to reach out and touch his big muscular arms. (Did they work him too hard?) I want to remember his little yawns that he tries to swallow and hide in his conversation. (Did he get enough sleep? Where did he sleep?)   He looks only a little tan. (Thank goodness he used sunscreen!)  It's as if I'm the quality control monitor now, analyzing everything and computing how good it really was and if he actually did well. And I know he did. I feel it from his words and between all the things he's not saying, with the little smiles that light up his face as he recalls what it was all about.

And then I am brought back to reality because I ask a question that he just answered and I should have been listening. I quickly shake my head and say Oh, right! Sorry! And I want to say, "I was just in my head, thinking about all the befores that have led you to this point, to this day, to this life, and let me tell you how wonderful it is to see you! To see you embracing this life! To be full of wonder and curiosity - about people and places and worlds! And how absolutely wonderful it is to have you Home! "

And so I just say, It is so good to have you Home.