But I don’t know why.

There are seasons in my life I miss more than others. I don’t want to go back.
Going back is never as good. But I still miss them.

Rochelle, IL, Circa 1977

I love I grew up in Illinois. My roots are midwestern. I feel it whenever I’m back in Chicago, that polite New York City.

These are my people.

I walked three blocks to my elementary school, a block of which was an open field we affectionately called “The Prairie.” In the winter, the fire department would turn it into an ice rink. On wintry days. I would bravely turn my face into the wind and treck across the ice like a fierce arctic explorer. Summer days of climbing trees, baseball, and pretending to be superheros — I miss those days. It was home.

My family moved to Georgia after the blizzard of ‘79. While I have fond memories of my middle and high school years there (and a lot not-so-fond), I never really claimed Georgia. I was always “from Chicago.”

Franklin, TN, Circa 1999

Fast-forward 22 years later. It took a brief stint at Bible School in Greenville, SC for Renee’ and I to meet. We moved to Memphis and had a kid, before moving to Franklin to pastor a church (and have another kid!). The people of that church were infused into our lives for 13 years. From 1993 to 2006, we experienced community and joy and friendship in ways I’ve never experienced since. I miss those days. They seem simpler. I know there were hard days - but I honestly don’t remember them. I thought many times over those years, “these are my people.”

A few still are. But we had to pack it all up and move 8000 miles away.

Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, Circa 2012

During our years living in this funky, cold, smoky, and weirdly endearing town, we probably experienced some of the hardest days of our lives, along with some of the most joy. Evenings with Mongolian students in our home. Late open mic nights at the student center. Soccer practice under the lights at 10:30 PM because it was the only time we could rent the field. Guitars and translation projects and students brought together a team of Mongolians I would give my life for. More than once I would look around me and think, “these are my people.” Our differences didn’t matter. We were friends. I talk to many of them still today.

Leaving Franklin in 2006 was hard.

Leaving Mongolia in 2014 may have been harder. It was definitely more complicated.

Greenville, SC, Circa 2021

I am writing this just before heading over to meet with our small group. We haven’t been to “big church” in a year during these pandemic times. We have stayed connected with a small group of like-minded people.

We eat.
We talk.
We laugh.
We pray.

It’s really that simple. While I miss what I’ve mentioned above, I know one day I’m also going to miss this group in most of the same ways.

These are my people.

This town has never felt like “home” to me. I get the feeling we will move on someday. But when we do, I imagine I’ll get homesick for these days, as well. For this day. For these people.

Because homesickness isn’t really about what’s in the past.

Homesickness is about something to come that’s better than anything we’ve even imagined.

Much of this rant was inspired by this particular liturgy from "Every Moment Holy" -- written by my friend, Doug McKelvey. He was one of those folks in Franklin, TN who was "my people." If you don't have this physical book on your shelf, you should.