Roots: The Secret Joy of Staying for Awhile

Last week, our son went to his grandparent's house and we went to California. Chris had a conference in Monterey and I tagged along. I got all kinds of "me" time, time away from Texas's 100-degree fake fall, time to explore wherever I wanted.

On the last day of our trip, I drove the rental car to Carmel-by-the-Sea. I read Jane Austen at a coffee shop and then drove down to the beach, walked in bare feet across the sand, took photos of a house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, and gazed at the rhythmically crashing surf. On paper, it was the perfect Elizabeth morning. But I stood on that beach, looked around me, and thought, "I know logically that this is gorgeous. So why don't I feel joy?" Something was off. And then a realization dawned.

I think of myself as such an unattached traveler, an independent spirit. But there I was--homesick.

Permanence. It's something we haven't known much of. 2 years, 9 months, and 28 days: That was our previous record for length of time spent living in one place during our marriage. We beat that record this year on April 2, making Austin the most permanent home Team Bernhardt has ever known. (It took me about half an hour of photo and calendar research to complete those calculations. You're welcome.)

As I've written about in previous posts (like here, here, here, and here), the upshot of a nomadic lifestyle has been the chance to immerse ourselves in different cultures and to meet all sorts of different people otherwise unconnected to one another. The downside has always been loneliness and the feeling of shallow roots.

I'm the daughter of a travel agent whose email signature quote reads, "The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page." I dreamed of studying abroad--and then I did. I dreamed of being an overseas missionary--and then I was. A high school teacher gave me an inspirational talking to about how I was different from the other girls, how I would go see the world--and I listened to him.

Roots just weren't my priority. I wanted excitement. I felt like I needed it. I thought that to be committed to a routine meant to be stuck in a rut. Thinking of roots, I felt claustrophobic.

But three years ago, I moved back home. Three years ago, I became a stay-at-home mom. Three years ago, I returned to my home church, where it can still be more effective to introduce myself as "Mark and Carol's daughter" than as Elizabeth Bernhardt.

And it turns out that the daily rhythms of making meals, mothering my son, loving my husband, walking down the familiar grocery store aisle, and getting my work done have built the stable ground I never seemed to find as a nomad. They're healing me with the comforting embrace of predictability.

We call them the "normal" things: the daily hello-saying, the text conversations with other moms, the local events I make plans for with local friends. But there's nothing normal about them. They are rich. Relationships matter deeply, and this is how they build. Each encounter is like a brick that is added to a house that is becoming my home, grounding me in a place and with its people.

Yes, I'm a romantic. I'm an artist. I'm a traveler. I'm an out-of-the-box thinker. All of those things are true. But it turns out that flowing water takes shape inside a solid container.

I still love my wings. But I'm also beginning to believe in roots.