Going Home

What made you come?

He said.

You, I said.

A second chance 

At hugging you.

Last week I got to surprise my dad and hug him for the first time since his life-saving heart surgery last August. I couldn’t wait anymore. Second chances aren’t meant to be squandered and I needed to go home for my own peace of mind.  My sister and I planned it to coincide with the 10-year anniversary of my mom’s passing and the three of us went out for lunch to simply BE TOGETHER. What a rare and precious gift.

We didn’t stop there, however, and went on like debt collectors - arriving unannounced at unsuspecting family and friends, amassing hugs wherever we went. I highly recommend it. In fact, I’d even go as far as saying that it’s always the right decision to go home and wrap your arms around the people you love. There’s something in the joy and connection that lingers like the smell of rain after a highveld thunderstorm. Of which there were many.

The second half of my trip was spent with the other half of me. My sister. She’s the soundtrack to my childhood: laughing loudly, loving fiercely, and always giving freely of herself. Nothing has changed. 

We celebrated my birthday with Dad and Helen, my nieces, and an unforgettable night in the bush, before meeting the rest of the family in Zebula. We lazed at the pool, took golf cart game drives to sunset spots, indulged in fireside chats, and even got a chance to play padel (which, for my American friends, is NOT pickleball.)

As I return to life in Austin, where the bluebonnets and mountain laurels have welcomed me, I’m grateful for the reminder that I’m home here too. I’ve passed the hugs on to my family and reminded them that we’re part of something bigger. We may have transplanted ourselves, but our roots come from a very healthy forest of trees that still bend their boughs to us in support and prayer.