Coming Home to Dixie

For all the blessings we’ve experienced since moving to Mississippi—the baptisms, the peace, the beauty of the land, the stillness of morning coffee, and the joyful noises of our new piglet, Amelia—there are also moments that bring us to our knees with quiet questions: Did we really do the right thing?

This week, those questions came louder than usual.

Thanksgiving was cozy, intimate, and sweet. And while we’re looking forward to the same kind of quiet joy for Christmas, the absence of our extended family has started to sting a little deeper. I’ve always loved hosting gatherings, especially during the holidays. I miss the full house, the bustling kitchen, and the familiar cadence of loved ones gathered around the table. But more than that, what I felt most acutely this week was a deeper ache for connection—not just any connection, but the kind that only comes from close friends who know your heart.

Back in California, I was surrounded by a few dear friends who nurtured and supported me—and allowed me to do the same for them. That kind of relationship doesn’t come quickly, but I think I underestimated just how hard it would be to be without it. Here, people are outwardly kind and polite, but there’s an invisible wall that seems hard to get through. Sometimes it feels like there’s a line between being welcomed and truly belonging, and I haven’t crossed it yet.

I felt this deeply on Wednesday night.

The Chili No One Chose

Every Wednesday our church hosts a fellowship supper and Bible study. Each week a different group is assigned to bring food, and this past week it was finally our turn. I was excited. Food is one of my love languages, and I was genuinely thrilled to have the opportunity to share something homemade with our new church family.

I had just perfected my chili recipe—thick, hearty, warm with just the right amount of heat. It felt like the perfect dish. I even decided to bake fresh sourdough bread to go with it. I started the day early, carefully planning my work schedule so I could devote the right amount of time to preparing everything just so. Butter-sautéed garlic and onions, the sizzle of ground beef, fragrant spices, simmering tomatoes—the kitchen smelled like love. I poured my time, resources, and heart into that pot, knowing this was not only a contribution, but a reflection of myself.

When it was time to leave, Jim and I gently packed the chili in towels and a Styrofoam box to keep it steady and warm. We loaded up the bread and utensils and headed off with anticipation. I even stood behind my pot, ready to ladle with a smile, trying to quiet the shy voice inside me that always second-guesses how I come across to new people.

But no one came.

Person after person passed me by with a polite nod or nothing at all. I watched as every other dish was scooped and served, but my chili sat untouched. In the end, only one person took a bowl.

It seems silly, doesn’t it? To cry over chili. But it wasn’t about the food. It was about what the chili represented—my effort to belong, to contribute, to be seen. It felt like a rejection, even if unintentional. I stood there blinking back tears, suddenly so aware that I’m still the outsider here. We all are.

Thirty years ago, this might have been home. But now, we’re strangers trying to replant roots in soil that’s both familiar and foreign.

The Tears and the Truth

I think the holidays make it harder. The financial strain of the move, the emotional toll of transition, and the ache of the unknown—it all caught up with me this week. The tears came easily, and I let them. Jim and I talked in the morning, holding each other, reminding ourselves of why we came.

We reminded each other of God’s calling, of His faithfulness, and of the many blessings we have experienced. It’s just that some weeks are heavier than others. This one has been heavier.

But at least we had some delicious chili to enjoy all week. 😂