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I was recently captivated by a story about these three nuns in Salzburg who were seemingly forced to an old folks’ home and then escaped to return to their old cloister and school, but the cloister is said to be beyond repair and their return was, of course, frowned upon by the powers that be. Their rebellion resonated with me and I find myself rooting for them wholeheartedly. I shared the story with my family and our youngest hit the nail on the head: “It’s just like ‘Trip to Bountiful,’” she said, in her usual prescient way. It hit me like a ton of bricks. It’s my all-time favorite movie, a story about the overwhelming desire to go home before it’s too late, to spend the end of your days here on Earth at home. That film affects me like n o o t h e r. Period. Paragraph.

My cousin and niece made the trek to visit us today — so sweet and selfless of them to come. We were having a wonderful visit and got to looking at old pictures and reminiscing and retelling all the old stories…and retelling all the old stories…and retelling all the old stories…and even going off about some things, all talking at once, when my wife walked in from work and surprised us all… I was almost overcome. We often joke that she tends to call a spade a spade, but doesn’t have to call it s…shovel — she doesn’t mince words — but her presence, her perspective beckoned me back to “us” and immediately called me back. Next year will be 35 years and she is my home — and oh, how thankful I am for her. This takes nothing away from my family, but speaks to leaving and cleaving — and being thankful beyond words for my sweet wife. (BTW, some of the old pics were of her and me way back when, which got me to thinkin’, can you tell?) She’s adopted my family as her own, loves them, cares for them, and knows them genuinely — what a gift.