Coming Home to Dixie

This week marks one year since we began that cross-country journey.

As I think back over everything that happened—from those last hectic days in California to finally pulling into our driveway at 3:30 on a July morning—I realize that the trip itself became so much more than simply getting from one place to another.

It became the bridge between the life we had known and the life God was preparing for us.

The move changed our address.

The journey changed us.

For months, our lives had revolved around checklists, packing tape, moving supplies, and the endless question of what to keep, what to donate, and what would fit into a moving truck.

The dream that had once felt so far away was suddenly real.

We were leaving California.

As moving day approached, our emotions swung wildly between excitement and heartbreak. We had said our goodbyes to family and friends, packed up the only home our girls had really known, and prepared ourselves for a journey that would take us 2,700 miles across the country.

We had no idea what waited for us.

There were unexpected challenges almost daily.

I sold my car.

Our German Shepherd, Ava, developed a painful skin condition.

We discovered our new home had an address discrepancy that took days of phone calls between different cities and post offices to untangle.

Then came perhaps the strangest surprise of all.

Someone had broken into our new house before we ever moved in.

The painter we had hired called to say she couldn’t get inside. A man had been living there with his dog. The sheriff arrested him, and we later learned he was wanted for a violent crime.

It was surreal.

Even before arriving, Mississippi had already become an adventure.

Then came all of the “lasts.”

My last appointment with the hairstylist I’d been seeing for ten years.

The last weekends in the house where we’d built so many memories.

The last drives through familiar streets.

The last California sunsets.

I remember driving through town one afternoon and feeling an overwhelming wave of sadness wash over me. California had given me so much. It was where I rebuilt my life after cancer. It was where I met Jim. It was where we became foster parents. It was where our daughters came home.

Leaving wasn’t easy.

But sometimes God calls us away from comfortable places toward better ones.

Then moving day arrived.

Well… almost.

The movers worked so late that night we made the difficult decision to postpone leaving until the following morning. At the time it felt like another frustrating delay.

Instead, it became one of God’s sweetest provisions.

Because that extra day allowed us to catch Gracie.

Our sweet cat had somehow sensed the move coming and refused to come inside for days. We searched for her constantly. We shook bowls of cat food in the dark. We crawled through spider webs. We even set our alarms for three in the morning hoping to surprise her.

Finally, because our departure had been delayed, we caught her.

Had we left on schedule, she likely would have been left behind.

Looking back now, I don’t see a delay.

I see God’s timing.

Then we finally pulled out of our driveway.

Three dogs.

Four cats.

One bird.

Two vehicles.

A trailer.

A moving truck.

And enough anxiety to fill both vehicles.

What followed became one of the greatest adventures our family has ever shared.

Nevada tested us immediately.

The Excursion broke down again.

And again.

And again.

What should have been a few hours turned into sixteen.

We camped in the back of the truck.

We limped into Salt Lake City.

We marveled at the brilliant white salt flats.

We crossed Wyoming beneath impossibly blue skies and towering red rock cliffs.

Colorado greeted us with rain, darkness, rough highways, and a flat trailer tire.

One night we splurged on the cheapest motel we could find after three nights sleeping cramped together in the back of the Excursion.

It felt like luxury.

By the fifth day, we were exhausted beyond words.

Then, just after midnight, we crossed into Mississippi.

I still remember the eerie bridge.

The narrow roads.

The darkness.

Jim struggling to see ahead while I drove behind him with my bright lights on to help illuminate the road.

We were almost home.

To keep ourselves awake, we played our family game called “Praises,” taking turns telling one another what we appreciated about each person during the trip.

Those conversations remain some of my favorite memories from the entire journey.

At 3:30 in the morning, we finally pulled into our driveway.

The girls raced through the empty house while we unrolled sleeping bags onto bare floors.

Three hours later, the movers arrived.

I thought arriving would mean the hard part was over.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

We had to learn a new way of life.

Our first grocery shopping trip amazed us with prices that seemed almost unbelievable compared to California.

Our first football game reminded me why Friday nights are sacred in the South.

Our first church service became the beginning of something much bigger than we ever imagined.

It wasn’t just a church.

It became family.

That little country church slowly restored something inside me that I thought had been gone forever.

Years of disappointment.

Years of hurt.

Years of keeping faith private instead of lived within a community.

Then something remarkable happened.

Jim gave his life to Christ.

Soon after, Siena and Roslynn did the same.

Watching all three of them baptized remains one of the greatest blessings of my life.

This place wasn’t simply changing our address.

It was changing our hearts.

Along the way, our little farm began taking shape.

Dale.

Ernie.

Amelia.

Charlie.

Winston.

Millie.

Each new addition somehow found a place not only on our property but in our hearts.

We’ve watched fog roll across the valley from our back patio while sipping coffee in the mornings.

We’ve explored country roads on our Friday Fun Days.

We’ve laughed over board games around the dining room table.

We’ve celebrated our first Thanksgiving…

Our first Christmas…

Our first Easter…

We’ve watched breathtaking sunrises.

We’ve weathered fierce thunderstorms.

We’ve learned to appreciate neighbors who still stop to help without being asked.

We’ve learned that community isn’t something you stumble into.

It’s something you slowly become part of.

Not every memory has been joyful.

We said goodbye to Ava.

We lost Finn.

I spent five frightening days in the hospital with pneumonia, uncertain how serious things might become.

There were days we questioned everything.

Days we felt lonely.

Days we wondered whether we’d made the right decision.

But every difficult season seemed to be met with unexpected kindness.

A church family unloading trucks.

Friends inviting us to lunch.

People showing up simply because someone needed help.

It reminded me again and again that we hadn’t simply moved to Mississippi.

We had been welcomed into a community.

Today, I look around our home and smile.

I see the girls growing into remarkable young women.

I see Jim drinking coffee beside me while we watch the fog drift across ninety acres that somehow became ours.

I see sheep grazing.

A pig squealing for breakfast and another rooting around in the barn.

Dogs running through the pasture.

And I think about the little girl I once was.

The foster child who spent years wondering where she belonged.

If you had told that little girl that one day she’d become an attorney… marry a wonderful man… adopt two beautiful daughters… move across the country… own a little farm… find a church family… and finally discover what home truly feels like…

I don’t think she would have believed you.

But God already knew.

Looking back over this past year, I realize something.

We thought we were moving across the country.

In reality…

God was bringing us home.

And somehow, home turned out to be even better than we imagined.