309 Home

 

Beth clicked on the message alert in Facebook. The text was short: “When are you coming home?” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to quell tears that sprouted under her eyelashes.

“Home” wasn’t the house waiting for her a few miles down the road with daughter, son-in-law, grandson, and pets.

“Home” wasn’t the humble lake home 14 hours away with her son and his dog. 

“Home” wasn’t the United States of America.

“Home” was a village on a lake in Guatemala.

Memories floated by as beautiful as the soul behind the words: the morning spent under banana trees, the ease of conversations, the quickness of the hours, the magic spell of tea in the shade and ghee in the sun. It was another world of dirt paths, lush gardens, and hand-made stone walkways. USA life forced Beth’s feet on productive paths, with ever-present time ticking away the opportunities to make progress. Lake life had a different rhythm, a different production. Somehow in simplicity, more meaningful work was done under the guise of connection, presence, or benevolence.

A flicker beneath her conscious mind felt like a plane ticket turned fan, waving under her nose, “Fly away! Fly away!” while her thoughts corralled her schedule. Two deadlines at the end of the month; Minnesota in the beginning of April; Don’t forget to schedule all those appointments; Get documents notarized and filed; Just three weeks now. Pull yourself together and maybe you can go in May—or June—or July—or August.

Beth shook her head as if to derail the train chugging through her head. It was happening again. Pressure. Piles of to-do lists. Putting off departure dates. Just like December when she threw caution to the wind, tossed the frustrations and schedules aside, and cashed in her airmiles four months later than originally planned, she may have to do it again. 

The other day, she told José that May was the earliest she could come. Now it felt like May was a slow-motion runaway. With demands crowding in, only a miracle could have her on a plane. Not to mention the new requirements for entry: a Covid vaccine, which she had no intention of getting.

Beth bowed her head, eyes still closed, and whispered, “Lord, I want to go to Guatemala. I do not want a vaccine. I’d like a miracle to get me there, please.” She paused and added, “if it be Thy will.”

The words were a holdover from formal days of religion. She uttered them to cover her bases, but her heart held her miracle request like a secret love note tucked in a pocket. She continued her conversation in silent thought. You know my heart, Lord. Help me know it too. I don’t want to respond to pressure. I want to respond to the intimacies of Your breath. I just hold space for Your possibilities and my desires becoming clear as I tune myself to Your voice. 

She peeked at the clock on her computer. It was 11:27, close enough to midnight to make her feel like she should get home and find rest. 

Should. Beth frowned at the timed pressure. Every hour or half hour seemed to mark something she should do but wasn’t or wouldn’t get to for a while.Tasks piled upon themselves in her wake.

Two weeks passed before the next message. “Did’ja hear the good news?! No more vaccines required to get into Guat!”

Two weeks and two days, “Hi, Mamacita” (with a wink). “When did you say you were coming back?”

 

A month had passed. Deadlines still loomed. Beth vowed to get there soon . . . to the rainforest, to the volcanoes, to the lake and the village and the dogs. Her heart reached toward Atitlan again . . . to get to her friends . . . to go “home.”

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