I’ve always thought that returning home after a trip is a good thing. Some of those occasions I’m just happy to be home, while others I smile broadly and am thrilled to be back home.
On my flight from Atlanta today, our pilot gracefully touched down so gently on the tarmac as to make me wonder if the wheels had made contact yet. The moment I heard the reversing of the engines and heard that unmistakable high-pitched whirr of the engines, however, I knew we had, and my face broke into the biggest smile.
It’s not like I’d been gone for an extended time—only a few days. Yet something about returning home this time was doubly special. Over dinner last night, I shared with a couple of friends that I’d already begun to think about returning home. Not that I wasn’t enjoying my trip. I was. It’s just that I felt blessed and excited by all that awaited me at home.
I picked up a new class, have been researching new locales and made contact with a ton of great individuals, some of whom are becoming fast friends.
Yeah, coming home is always good. But when one has new adventures awaiting her upon her arrival, the anticipation level skyrockets.
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