...that you can never go home.
This feeling really sunk in for me only recently. I realized I can never truly return home. The problem is with the word "home." What does it even mean?
When I first arrived in Korea, I didn't want to call my new apartment "home." I just called it my apartment and cringed if anyone asked me, "are you going home?" when referring to going to my apartment. Now I don't care anymore. Largely because everyone has differing ideas about what home is.
If home is a physically building (much in the sense when we call a building church) then I have several. There's my apartment home in Korea, my house in Superior, and my parents house in Minnesota.
If home is the place where you grew up, as in the physical house you spent your childhood in, then that place is long gone. Ten years ago this year since I moved from that place out on my own.
If home is where your biological family is then I am as far from them as I could possibly be. Haven't seen them (other than Facetime) in almost one year.
If home is where the heart is, then it's been spread all over the globe. I've given my heart to many, loved much, even at the cost of it being broken. Besides, the heart "is deceitful above all things" and has lead me astray more times than I can count.
So that being the case, I've had to accept there is no such thing as going home, because I no longer understand what home is. However, regardless of whether or not I find the answer, one thing I know for sure: I will always carry this feeling, the longing to go home.
And I think I know why.
Because my real home awaits me in life beyond this one. My eternal home, my final resting place. I must accept I will carry this feeling until I reach the last destination. But it will be worth all the toil of getting there.