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Last updated on: June 30, 2015 at 11:43 pm by Abra Carnahan

Home 2015-06-30T23:43:20-07:00 Abra Carnahan

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Liam (age 3) loving some huckleberry popcorn on the road .

Last weekend, we packed up our family and went to visit my hometown. As we drove the seven hours from Northern Idaho to Southern Idaho, my stomach churned inside me. Outside my window, the landscape transformed from a lush oasis to a dry, desert land, and I couldn’t help but notice that my insides felt the same way. I don’t have a storehouse of pleasant memories from my childhood. God places some of us in homes that are rich with the fruit of generation upon generation of godliness. My parents were first generation Christians. I know they did the best they could. There are happy memories: My sisters and I had a beautiful playhouse that my father, an accomplished carpenter, had made for us. We spent hours jumping on an oversized trampoline and swinging on a huge rope swing that hung from an enormous oak tree in our back yard. I couldn’t begin to calculate the time we spent swimming in our above ground pool that my sister taught me how to back float in. We often went camping as a family. We had a three-room tent and my mother was and is an avid fisher. The smell of pine trees and lake water calm my spirit. But it is easy to allow those memories to get lost in the bad stuff. During the drive down, I feel my spirit tumble into anxiety.

We made it safely and went directly to my mom’s house, the house I spent six

Idaho

years in before moving out at the age of sixteen. My dad is there grilling burgers, just like the old days. My parents relationship is more relaxed with one another since the divorce eleven years ago. My brother is there with a friend. They are headed to a festival over the weekend but sweetly took the time to drop in to see us. My sister, ten years younger than I, my sister who I rocked to sleep so many nights, whose tears I wiped away, still lives with my mom, but she is all grown up now. I see only traces of the toddler I knew in her beautiful face. I haven’t seen my mom since my third baby was born. She meets my crazy youngest son for the first time. Bittersweet. I have missed her so much.

As soon as we get there, both my sons manage to pee on the hardwood floor. The floor I tore musty old carpet off of when I was fifteen. My mom laughs, it doesn’t worry her. She had six kids: she remembers what it is like to potty train. She pulls out the same toys my brothers used to play with. It feels weird. Later, after dinner, I catch up with my dad. Neither one of us are big talkers, so we don’t talk on the phone often. His life is unrecognizable from the life I knew. We’ve both changed. My little sister shows my kids around the house and finds a box of my old things. My daughter emerges in my Minnie Mouse tee shirt that we bought at Disneyland. The wallpaper and curtains in the dining room are the same as the day we moved in

Jude (age 4) on the rope swing.

and I easily find my way around the kitchen — everything is pretty much in the same place it was when I lived there. It was the first house my parents bought. I still remember their excitement and pride. In the back yard, the playhouse has been transformed into a chicken coop, and the trampoline frame holds up the baby chick’s feeding troughs. My son swings with mirth upon what is left of our old rope swing.

My mom owns a bookstore. She has sold homeschool curriculum for as long as I can remember. At first, it was just a couple shelves of used Bob Jones and Abeka in the late 80s. Now she has a full retail space. She has 30 years of experience and knows everything there is to know on the subject. She allows my husband and I to go through after hours, and she coaches us as we choose what books to use for the upcoming school year. My girls are going into first and fourth grade. We talk about phonetic blends and penmanship. We find a science book and an Idaho history book that both girls can learn from together. We buy Saxon 54 and Horizons Mathematics. My mom is amazing.

Then it is time for goodbyes. In the midst of herding the kids to the car, I kiss my mom and embrace my sister. I’m trying really hard not to cry. That night, we stayed at a friend’s house. A friend I’ve known for as long as I can

My husband, Ben, driving past canola fields.

remember. She was friends with my husband and I long before he and I had met. She introduced us. I take an Ambien and sleep fitfully through the night. The next morning we drive North to visit my inlaws. I sleep in the passenger’s seat while my husband drives. I wake up with tears running down my face. My husband knows to let me process what I’m feeling in silence. I’ll talk when I’m ready.

I’m home now. Back to my beautiful living room with the peacock colored walls. Last night I slept nightmare free for the first time in over a week in my own bed. I don’t begrudge my family, but I regret my troubled childhood. I hate that I still remember the bad things that happened in my youth, but I know God allowed them for my good. My life isn’t perfect now, but thereis so much joy and laughter in it. I can’t help but wish my mom and dad and sisters

Lapwai

and brothers could share in this abundance. My heart still aches for them as I pray today. I pray they find peace and freedom in God’s truth and that their days will be filled with joy. I know prayer and love is all I have to offer them, and that needs to be enough. I keep reminding myself that this is good and that I am okay. I’m home now.

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