roots.

I'm in Logan today. I have been since yesterday and I will be until I load my kids up in the car this afternoon and trek-it back down to Eagle Mountain. Beside being away from Craig, I love to be here. To come home to my roots. Ironically, these aren't actually my roots. I didn't grow up in Logan, and excepting a very brief stint before I got married over 5 years ago, I've never really lived here. I grew up in California. But, it still feels like home when I come to visit my parents in this house that I have never lived in. I sat at the kitchen table chit-chatting with my mom this morning, while she fried eggs for my kids and Ethan threw his Cheerios on the floor. Scooter their dog had no problem cleaning those up. My dad came down for breakfast and we all talked until his radio started beeping and the room goes unconsciously silent so he can listen to the call. The Chief has been "THE CHIEF" for so long now, I can hardly remember when he wasn't. Except that I was exceptionally proud to tell my kindergarten class that my daddy was a "fireman!" No one's dad had a job as cool as mine did. He finished his breakfast and kissed us all goodbye before rushing out the door. I swear I was ten again, and I loved it. Last night, people were coming and going, snacking, laughing, chatting all over the house. I love the noise that is my parents house. Houses that are quiet feeling eery and unnatural to me. I sat on the couch across from my sister Tashi and her boyfriend Nick, while my kids ran wild all over the house like hooligans until much much too late of an hour, and my mom taught me how to knit. I was so frustrated that I'm pretty sure I was acting like a teenager. Then just like Nick said, I had my "ah-ha!" moment and everything clicked. I can now knit. It was brilliant. I slept in my mom's spare room, that she uses for sewing. It's beautiful and soft. Carter slept with me. He snuggled right up into my side and I fell into a joyful slumber. He woke me up early, and I watched my mom cut his hair with her clippers while he sat on the counter of her bathroom with his feet in the sink. Then I asked her if she could give my bangs a trim. Now, I'm sitting at her desk in her laundry room. It looks exactly like her desks have always looked. Papers scattered here and there, organized chaos, some ribbon, a picture of her with my kids, some books, her glasses case, and right on top are her scriptures, the same ones she's had since I was a child, in the same navy blue case. My mother is a woman of faith. I want to be one too. This house holds no memories from my childhood, but everything about it calls out "home." Because home is not a location, that can change. It's not a specific set of walls, they can burn down. Home is where your family is. It's wherever the people are who create the smells, the messes, the sounds, the love. And as I sit here in this unfamiliar house, a feeling of nostalgia washes over me. Every sound and smell is familiar. I feel my roots deep in my bones and my soul calls out, "home."