Longing for a Homeland by Dr. Lynn Anderson

Author:Dr. Lynn Anderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-12-19T16:00:00+00:00

PART ONE

HOMESICK

I could not quiet that pearly ache in my heart that I diagnosed as the cry of home

—PAT CONROY

I listen to someone who begins with a confession of thirst, of homesickness.

—PHILIP YANCEY

CHAPTER ONE

I WANT TO GO HOME

Carolyn and I have four children—two girls, then two boys—who all tend to reflect their blond-haired, blue-eyed Swedish genes. Our oldest son, Jon, married Joanna, whose maiden name was Gomez. Of course, you wouldn’t expect Joanna to look like the rest of the Andersons. She is a strikingly beautiful Hispanic woman and a delight to our lives.

Jon and Joanna’s first child, Abby, was born with nearly blond hair and nearly blue eyes (leading her abuelo—“grandfather”—on the Gomez side to wonder if the wrong baby might have been brought home from the hospital!) . Then Abby’s brother, Connor, was born. He sports a full head of copper-red hair, a color that resembles neither side of the family.

When the third child was due, I asked Abby, “Do you want a brother or a sister?”

“Oh, Pappy,” she answered, “I want a sister.”

“And Connor,” I queried, “what do you want?”

Quick as a flash he responded, “I want a Mexican!”

When Ana was born, they both got their wish. Abby got her sister. Connor got his Mexican. Ana has jet-black hair and olive skin. She is as charming as her mother and as gregarious as her abuelo, Bob Gomez.

When Ana was four, Jon and Joanna accompanied Carolyn and me on a trip to Israel. Ana, Abby, and Connor were left in the charge of Aunt Michele and Uncle Wes. Now, two weeks away from parents is a long time for a four-year-old child. Ana fared pretty well, aided by a photograph of Mommy and Daddy that she could look at any time she wanted. But on one of those final few days, Uncle Wes corrected Ana for some small mischief. Her lower lip poked out, and she ran up the stairs to her room. Concerned that he had been too tough, Wes slipped up the stairs and peeked in on her. She was sitting in the middle of the bed, holding the picture of Mommy and Daddy tightly in both hands, salt trails sliding down both cheeks, fighting back sobs.

She finally noticed her uncle peeking through the door. “Uncle Wes,” Ana announced in a forlorn, but deliberate, tone, “I think I want to go home now!”

Me too, Ana. Home. I want to go home!

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