Home Is Where My People Are: The Roads That Lead Us to Where We Belong

by Sophie Hudson

  So when we moved to the place where we live now, I realized that living in a house without a lot of trees had made me forget the rhythm of how things bud and bloom and change and grow. It wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to me or anything like that—but I did think it was interesting.

  Well.

  A few years ago we had one of those springs where we were getting pummeled by the pollen, and finally, one Sunday night in late March, our local meteorologist predicted a strong thunderstorm. Normally we dreaded bad weather because one of our dogs hated thunder, but in that particular instance we were excited and hopeful that the rain might offer some relief from the allergy onslaught we’d been experiencing for a couple of weeks.

  Sure enough, the thunderstorm arrived at about seven that night. It was loud and dramatic and spectacular—as thunderstorms tend to be—and the rain poured fast and furious for almost two hours.

  Right before bed I took our dogs outside for their last trip of the night, and when I walked out the back door, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Honestly, I’d forgotten it was even possible.

  Late that afternoon our dogwood trees had been covered in buds. But after the rain, they’d burst into full bloom.

  Even in the darkness.

  And it was the sweetest, most visceral reminder that some of the most beautiful transformations take place during some of the darkest times.

  I don’t know about you, but I can testify to that.

  Hallelujah. And amen.

  In the springtime there are few things I enjoy more than spending a Friday afternoon at a high school baseball game, and this past April, I got to do just that during the state play-offs. My school was playing another local high school, and it was one of those spring days when it was almost like the birds and the trees and the sky and the sun got together and said, “Hey. Let’s really show off today. Let’s make this afternoon something extra special.”

  Alex asked one of his best buddies to go with us, and once we got to the game, we could only find a parking space on the side of an incline that would totally qualify as a small mountain, so we practically had to rappel down to the baseball field. As soon as I bought our tickets, the boys saw a friend and made a beeline for concession-stand candy, so I walked over to the visitor bleachers to find a seat. I plopped down next to a friend who’s a few years ahead of me in terms of motherhood; she and her husband have five kids—I’ve taught four of them—and I love and admire their precious family so much. Alex’s fourth-grade teacher was just across the aisle from us, and about ten of “my” eleventh graders sat a few rows up from her.

  And then the home team threw the first pitch, and we all watched some baseball.

  Y’all, it was the most ordinary day. Yes, it was beautiful outside, but in lots of ways it was just another spring day in another Southern city on another high school baseball field. Pitchers pitched, and hitters hit, and as the score climbed higher and higher in our team’s favor, we all high-fived and hollered and occasionally even hugged. When Alex and his friends weren’t running behind the bleachers, they staged a game of their own on the side of the field.

  Meanwhile, in between base hits and pop-ups and home runs, I got to catch up with some folks I hadn’t seen in a few months. We talked about life, we talked about the Lord, we talked about the poor guy playing left field for the other team because, bless his heart, it was probably not his favorite afternoon.

  After a couple of hours, the game ended. We won by about forty-two runs (this number might be a slight exaggeration), and after we said our good-byes, I called David, who was just finishing up at work, to see if he wanted to meet us for a hamburger. He did indeed. The boys and I hiked back up the small mountain (okay, it’s just a really steep hill, but I do not consider myself an explorer) to my car, stopping to visit with Alex’s favorite substitute teacher, and after we were buckled into our seats and heading out of the parking lot, I realized there was a big ole lump in the back of my throat. The presence of Alex and his friend was the only thing that kept the ugly cry at bay.

  The threat of tears was no mystery. I knew exactly why I was so emotional.

  I grew up so immersed in community that I didn’t even realize I had it. College was the same. But in my early twenties, I lost that feeling of being deeply connected to other people, and to me at least, it seemed like I didn’t fit in anywhere. My Jackson friends helped me rediscover that sense of belonging, and while Baton Rouge (and marriage) required some adjustment, the Lord provided a sweet church, great neighbors, and phenomenal students to pull me through.

  But then Birmingham. Oh, Birmingham. Life got so much sweeter after we found you, and part of me is so tempted to think that you might be the very best place of all.

  So that baseball game, as silly as it may sound, was such a reminder of how the Lord went before us when He called us here. Really, He’s outdone Himself. It’s been fourteen years, and our roots are deep. Fourteen years, and our hearts are at home. Fourteen years, and ordinary, simple, everyday life is all the more beautiful because of the people God has placed in our path.

  It might sound strange, but for more reasons than I could possibly count, Birmingham has been my very favorite lesson.

  Over the last forty-some-odd years, I’ve lived in ranch houses and dorm rooms and apartments. I’ve lived in a sorority house, post-war cottages, and the unfinished back room of a Craftsman bungalow. I’ve removed all manner of hideous wallpaper, I’ve experienced the depths of paint-color regret, and I’ve planted—and subsequently killed—more mums than I can count. I’ve added stripes to my walls (my late nineties decorative sensibilities might be best dubbed carnival chic), I’ve reupholstered seat cushions, and I’ve been known to tie a Christmas tree to a nail on the wall if I couldn’t get it to stand up just the way I liked it. It’s been mighty big fun to decorate and repurpose and personalize.

  But when push comes to shove, I’ll take substance over style all day long. I’ll take deep conversations around my cluttered kitchen table, heartfelt prayers on our tattered living-room sofa, and precious friends who know they’re welcome even if they walk in the front door and think the laundry has most certainly revolted and maybe even exploded.

  Because while it’s taken, you know, my whole life to wrap my brain around this idea, what I’m finally figuring out is that when we’re really and truly at home—with our faith, our family, our friends, our callings, and ourselves—there’s a transformation that has little to do with the style of our house or the numbers on the mailbox. It’s a change that turns us outward, that opens our arms, that compels us to extend a hand to people who are standing at a crossroads in their own lives and trying to figure out which way to go.

  And speaking of that.

  My path to peace hasn’t been the most predictable. It’s less than two hundred miles from Myrtlewood to Birmingham, but the route the Lord mapped out for me wasn’t quite as direct as moving from point A to point B. I left Myrtlewood, moved to Starkville, then to Atlanta, back to Starkville, then to Myrtlewood, to Jackson, and finally to Baton Rouge before I ever made it to Birmingham. That route is more than 1,400 miles, which means that, from a purely human perspective, it’s about 1,200 miles away from making good sense. If I’d sat down with a road atlas and a pen when I was seventeen years old and getting ready to leave for college, I would have never picked such an out-of-the-way, seemingly nonsensical path.

  But God knew better. He knows better. He’s been so sweet to lead me exactly where I needed to be—and in every single place, I’ve seen more of His goodness, more of His love, and more of His character. He has shown me all those things through His Word, certainly, and through the people I’ve met at different points along the road.

  So while David and I really do believe that God wants us in Birmingham right now—and while it really does feel like this is our place—I’m also mindful that it might not be our last stop. And that’s okay. I only have to look back over the course of my life to know that if the Lo
rd has another destination in mind for our little family, we can trust Him. He won’t lead us somewhere new and then abandon us; after all, just look at what Moses said to Joshua: “It is the LORD who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed” (Deuteronomy 31:8).

  Maybe things would have gone more smoothly for Moses and the Israelites if they’d had access to the Google. Maybe they would have made it to Canaan in record time if they’d only had an app to help them navigate the wilderness. But they actually had something even better, and so do we: a sovereign, steady Compass. The Lord guides us along every step of our journey.

  His timing is perfect.

  He doesn’t waste a bit of our wandering.

  And His faithfulness teaches a truth we can take with us no matter where we go:

  ’Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far

  And Grace will lead me home.

  TO BILL JENSEN: You are calm, wise, and honest, so basically you’re the perfect agent. Thank you for your constant encouragement and sage advice.

  To Stephanie Rische: I still haven’t figured out how you crawl in my head when you edit, but I’ve decided that you must be secretly Southern. I am so grateful for you. Thanks for taking my words and making them better.

  To Carol Traver: Somehow you manage to take the most stressful process I have ever experienced and make it feel like a relaxing board game. By a fire. With exotic coffees. Thanks for being patient and taking care of all the details that totally stress me out. You are a gem.

  To the Tyndale marketing and sales teams: Thanks to y’all, people can actually find my books in places other than the trunk of my car. I am forever indebted to you for your creativity and hard work.

  To Lisa Jackson: There are few things that make me happier than a long e-mail from you. Your insight is invaluable, as is your feedback. You’ve taught me so much, and I can never thank you enough.

  To the sweetest blog readers in all the land: Hey, remember when I quit blogging for about three months so I could finish this book? Y’all were so sweet about that. Your e-mails and tweets and comments and prayers kept me going, and even as I type this, I’m super happy that we now have tons of time to discuss TV and bacon and mascara again. Y’all are the best.

  To my writer friends: Thanks for being a safe place to vent/cry/celebrate/doubt/discuss Bravo/analyze cover options/laugh/quit/start over again. Y’all are a gift.

  To Jean: You are such a blessing to our family (and to so many other people too). The Hudsons are crazy about you.

  To the Baptist and Anglican Council of Mamas: Now it is time for queso.

  To Mary Jo, Anne, and Leslie: I can never repay you for all your prayers, but I do hope I get to fry you some chicken real soon.

  To Ree: Who is kinder, more generous, and more encouraging than you are? Nobody, that’s who.

  To my forever friends: I don’t even know what to say except that y’all are the best friends a girl could ever want. Thanks for letting me share some of our stories.

  To Paul IV, Gillian, and Graham: I’m so happy to be able to introduce your daddy to the people who read this book. He would be so incredibly proud of each one of you.

  To Melanie: Oh, my friend. I would have never finished this book without you, especially when I hit that point when I no longer had PLENTY OF TIME. I think our good friend the apostle Paul says it best: “I have never stopped thanking God for you.” I will forever contend that you’re the best gift the Internet ever gave me.

  To Rose: You are the world’s best writing cheerleader. Thanks for praying, for checking on my progress, and for sharing 13-B more times than I can count. You take care of your people so selflessly and so well.

  To Mama, Daddy, Martha, and the rest of my family: You have been patient and supportive all my life, but never more than this last year. And now that this book is finished, we are going to take A LOT of trips. I love y’all.

  To Alex: You’re my favorite person in the whole world. Being your mama is the best part of every single day. Your daddy and I are so proud of you. Go get ’em, #44.

  To David: You have championed all this writing stuff without condition or hesitation, and you will never know what a gift that has been to me. You read every word of this book before anyone else, and I have to say that you’ve become a mighty fine editor, Mr. Hudson. There’s no earthly opinion I value more. I love you.

  And finally, to Jesus: “Here I raise my Ebenezer;/Hither by Thy help I’m come;/And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,/Safely to arrive at home.”

  WITH AN URGE to document the hilarity of family life, Sophie Hudson began writing her blog in 2005. She’s just as shocked as she can be that people are still reading. Sophie hopes that through her stories, women find encouragement and hope in the everyday, joy-filled moments of life. In addition to her blog, BooMama.net, Sophie is the author of A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet and also serves as co-emcee for LifeWay’s annual dotMOM event. Sophie is a wife, mama, daughter, sister, and friend. She adores her family and loves to laugh. She also loves the DVR, Mississippi State sports, unsweetened ice tea, pedicures, and Jesus, whom she loves most of all. Sophie makes her home in Birmingham, Alabama.

  Connect with her in the following places:

  Blog: BooMama.net

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/SophieHudsonBooMama

  Twitter: @boomama

  SO, I HAVE A THEORY.

  It’s not a theory about science or religion or politics. Oh, heavens, no. That would be a complete departure from the very fiber of my personality.

  But I do have a theory about memory. More specifically, I have a theory about how we remember people.

  Are you ready?

  Prepare to be underwhelmed, my friends.

  My theory is that we typically have one dominant “fallback” memory that becomes our go-to mental image when we think about somebody.

  Now that I’ve typed that out, by the way, I’m thinking that maybe it’s not so much a theory as a loose, unverifiable observation.

  But let’s just run with it. Because whenever I think about Papaw Sims, for example, I picture him leaning over his deep freeze and asking if I’d rather have chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry ice cream. Whenever I think about Uncle Joe, I picture him dozing in his recliner with a stack of paperwork on his lap—and a ten-key adding machine within arm’s reach. And whenever I think about Mamaw Davis, my maternal grandmother, I picture her looking over her shoulder and grinning while she’s standing at the stove. Maybe even scooping a little Crisco out of the can.

  The mental picture of Mamaw standing at the stove is one of the most enduring images of my childhood, mainly because she stood at that stove so faithfully. She cooked three hot meals a day, seven days a week. There was never anything made from a box, either—no powdery macaroni and cheese or Hamburger Helper. Oh, no, ma’am. There was hot cornbread, beef stroganoff over rice, pot roast with carrots and potatoes, fried chicken, creamed potatoes, fresh peas, fried squash, fried okra (I have to pause for a moment whenever I mention Mamaw’s fried okra and give it the reverence and honor that it is due), egg custard pie, pound cake—I could go on and on.

  We didn’t have all that food at one time, mind you, or else we’d have alternated trips to Mamaw’s table with trips to the cardiac care unit, but there was always something delicious and homemade on that stove. Mamaw didn’t think she was doing anything special—she was just taking care of her family the best way she knew how—but I think her children and grandchildren can all testify to the fact that those meals she cooked ministered to us like a good Sunday sermon. And she didn’t have to say a single word.

  For at least one week a summer—sometimes more—my mama and my daddy, along with my aunt Choxie, who is Mama’s sister, and Chox’s husband, my uncle Joe, would ship my cousin Paige and me off to Mamaw and Papaw Davis’s pretty white farmhouse in Moss Rose, Mississippi—about thirty minutes from my hometown of Myrtlewood. Since Paige would have been born in the ea
rly 1900s if she’d had any say in the matter, she thrived on Mamaw and Papaw’s farm. She was perfectly content to pick blackberries, walk through the chicken coops, amble about in the pastures, and count cows. I, on the other hand, was a total scaredy-cat, wary of tall grass that made me itch and bumblebees that refused to be swatted away.

  I had issues when I was indoors, too. When Paige and I would go to bed at night, exhausted from our day’s adventures, I’d usually make it ten or fifteen minutes before I’d sprint down the hall and crawl into bed with Mamaw and Papaw. Every floorboard creak sounded to me like imminent danger, so I settled into sleep much more easily underneath the cool hum of the AC window unit in my grandparents’ room. No way could the boogeyman get me in there. Not on Papaw’s watch. He was broad shouldered, barrel chested, and utterly devoted to his family—a security blanket in human form.

  Papaw had some health problems when I was ten, and not too long afterward he and Mamaw decided to downsize and find a smaller house with a lot less land. Somebody later told my mama that Papaw was thinking ahead—he was worried something would happen to him and Mamaw would be stuck with the responsibilities of the farm. On top of that, he didn’t want her to be living in a relatively remote area all by herself. So they sold the farmhouse (and the farm) and moved to a blond brick house that was just catty-corner from Moss Rose’s Methodist church.

  Papaw added a den to the back of the new-to-them house so there would be a nice big gathering place for the family, and when we had our first Sunday lunch there a month or so after they moved in, Mamaw stood at her new stove and carried out the ministry of the homemade chicken pie just like she’d always done. Paige and I missed the backyard of the old house and the pipe swing with the eight-foot chain that hung from the branches of an old oak tree, but there was a barn to explore and plenty of room to roam. That was all we needed.