Month: September 2016

Dear Mom [Weeks 4&5]

Hey mom,

I’m glad to think about you off having fun with your friends this weekend because I entirely missed writing to you last weekend. To make myself feel better I remind myself that I did get to spend good time with you on Saturday night. I’m sorry again for being late to get you at the airport. I was so panicked when I realized that I was at the wrong terminal.

All weekend long I kept telling myself I would get to it later. And, then I told myself the same exact thing all week as well. Boy, has my life been hectic. It has always been hectic, but the past several weeks have been especially hectic. I hope it makes you feel better to know my lack of writing wasn’t because anything is actually more important than you, but because all of my free time went to my kids. I know you would not want me neglect them. Although I’m pretty sure I am doing a little of that, too. I just can’t keep up. I did lesson plans, homework, or cleaned house all day yesterday. My only breaks were when I went to coach volleyball and when we broke from routine to feed the missionaries dinner. We had a wedding reception we wanted to go to and we didn’t even make it. Bummer.

I am sending you a story I wrote awhile back. I just published it on my blog, and I know you will love it. I hope it makes up for my missed letter-writing week.

Anyhow, I don’t want this letter to turn in to my complaining. I truly am grateful to have my job, to be able to go to college, and to have a busy family. We took Abigail to her first session of therapy last week. After the therapist talked to her, he called me back in. He said, I want you to hear your daughter’s 5-year-plan. Abigail explained that she planned to, “graduate from high-school, go on a mission, go to college, and get married.” The therapist said that she was a remarkable seventeen year old with a good head on her shoulders and that LG and I should lighten up and let her figure out her own relationship stuff. That was not what I was expecting. I started to cry because I’ve been so worried that we’ve totally let her down in our parenting. I needed that validation so much. I didn’t even know that I needed it.

I’m sorry that we didn’t give you parenting validation enough when you were in the thick of things, mom. I hope you know how much your kids appreciate all that you have done for us. You are one of the most remarkable mothers. I’m so lucky to have you. I can’t even pinpoint everything that makes you so great, but I know one part of you that I try to emulate is selflessness. I think a lot of moms today get really caught up in meeting their own needs first and that can be really detrimental to their kids. I think some moms only take care of their kids needs and not their own. If I want to be remarkable, I think I have to find a balance between the two. But, I remind myself every day that I am in the middle of the war-zone. Our family is in its neediest stage right now. Some days I just have to hunker down and pray to make it out alive. How many years you did the exact same! Thanks for showing me that it is possible to get to the end.

I’ve thought about dad so much. LG brought me a surprise of Almond Roca home from his Costco trip yesterday. It was all I could do not to burst out in tears. It’s my favorite candy because it was dad’s favorite candy. Of course LG didn’t know that. He only knew it was my favorite void of the connection to dad. I felt like it was a little message from the universe that I will always have dad with me. Speaking of which, I am going to get some of that candy out of my closet (my connection to you – hiding stuff in my closet) to get me through my homework marathon today. Thanks for giving me a break from a deep-dive into ontology. I hate thinking about “what is real” and “what is not real.” It’s really hard to daily wrestle with intellectuals who want to devalue spirituality. I just read something that said it’s better to ask, “Is God real?” than “Does god exist.” It gave me a little encouragement in stating that God is very real to me.

How many times I’ve laughed this week thinking about you handing that boy working at Panda Express $10 and Abigail’s phone number. How many more times I will laugh. It will go down as one of my best memories ever. You are hilarious, mom. I think it is the cutest thing that you are always looking out for your kids and grandkids, even if you are totally crazy at times. I will also always remember how much you were impressed by that kid because he was working so hard like your Ricky. Hard work is such a big value in our family. I guess dad is looking down on me proud because I’m not getting much downtime lately. Just like his whole life. I have to convince myself to rest and relax more. I’m sure there is a part of dad regretting having gone too soon because he worked himself to death. I’m sure he has so much pride in all that he accomplished, but he is looking down on you wondering why he is gone and you are still here when you both worked equally hard.

I have to go. I have piles of homework. This letter sucks this week. I can feel the raw emotion of losing dad already weakening. I don’t like it. I want to sit and cry all day every day as a way of keeping his memory alive. However, I’m sure he’d have me move forward like I am instead of wallow in sorrow.

I love you mom. I hope I will l be less distracted by philosophy and literary theory next week. Have a wonderful week. Because who cares “what is.” You are what is. Dad is what is. I am what is. LG and our kids are what is. Being a family forever is what is. No one will convince me otherwise. I even said so in my class last Monday. I made a comment about the story “Return of a Private.” I basically argued the the American classic realist story was actually a version of the spiritual journey we might take straight back to our families after we die. That doesn’t go over well in academia. After I made the comment, I said, “Look, I know this view doesn’t match with realism, but my dad just died, and I need to believe this right now, so please don’t refute it.” My professor was empathetic and quickly responded before anyone else could, “I’m not going to argue with you.” It was a moment of true compassion. Someday I will thank him.

And even though there are a lot of intellectuals out there that believe that when we die we just die, I know my spirit will fly straight to each and every one of my family members, just like dad did for me. Oh, how I’ll always be grateful that Olive knew “what really was” in that moment. Her bark and perfectly behaved sit will always remind me of my dad’s love for me, and his remarkable ability with people and animals. I can’t get that dog to sit for the life of me.

A Simply Marvelous Life

caroline-harp While going through old class notes for my current paper, I found this story I wrote last spring. I remember how it made the student that presented after me cry. I felt so bad as she approached the podium upset. She explained that my story was especially tender to her because her dad had passed away recently. How was I to know that within months I’d be in the same “dad gone” boat?

I remember telling my dad of our plan to take a gift to the orphan boys and how he loved it. He wholeheartedly sanctioned it to my kids and he shared an inspiring story of his own. He cried. What a tender memory. He believed in the art of compassion. He lived the art. How grateful I am for him and his example. He inherently knew that the true joy of life was within our relationships with others.

I am grateful to have come across this story today. I’ve been in a school slump, not feeling up to the writing task. Today’s discovery reminded me of the importance of storytelling. Even if I am not the most eloquent storyteller.

A Simply Marvelous Life

“Those poor, poor boys,” Mother said loud enough for the room to hear as she read the newspaper. I asked her, “What boys?” She explained. Twenty years before she used to work with this guy. They were nothing more than acquaintances. “But still, it’s just so tragic.” He was dead now among the remains of his personal jet. It crashed on take-off in Colorado. The crash also killed his wife, and two of his five children.

Mother seemed obsessed over the three children left. It was hard to understand how complete strangers to her sabotaged her heart for months. She talked about them to everyone. Her friends. Her kids. Sometimes she would even talk to random strangers about how grateful she was to be alive. “Shopping with a toddler is hard, but it makes it easier when I think about how blessed I am to be alive.” When the family knelt in the family room every night, mother would sometimes pray out loud for the family. “Bless those boys.” When I complained about chores or homework or getting my phone taken away, she would remind me to be grateful. “You have both your parents, and all of your siblings. Remember, life is marvelous.” When Christmas neared mother told us that in the quiet of one morning she heard a voice in her mind. It was a woman begging, “They must have a gift from us under the tree.” Asking our forgiveness mother said she hoped we’d understand her stealing from us. She had withdrawn from her Christmas account, upsetting her carefully budgeted plan, to buy something for the orphans. She apologized and explained that we might have a little less this year. “But, I just feel it my duty to provide a gift for them from their dead mother. I can hear her voice as clear as day. I can’t ignore it.”

As Father drove us to the next town over, Mother watched her five elves stretch and giggle among the large sack of gifts in the back. The wrapped gifts would be left anonymously. “Because that is the best kind of giving,” mother said. The boys’ names, the ones their mother gave them, were monogrammed on their blankets. A note was included reminding them of their mother’s love, all the way from heaven. “She had found a way to hug them, through the mind of a stranger.”

Mother had done some serious sleuthing to get the names and address of the boys, but could hardly believe her eyes as they pulled up. When they verified the house number to the information on the paper in mother’s hand, everyone voiced their utter shock. A chorus of “no way” echoed the yelps of surprise as the vehicle reached the top of the mountain. The boys lived in a literal mansion. Mother laughed. “What in the world?” We all told her we should take the gifts back home, but she directed her elves to drop the gifts on the doorstep. “Be quiet. Don’t let anyone see you. Hurry up before someone calls the police.” As we sprinted our way back to the modest minivan that cowered under the massive gate, my little sister spared a glance for a golden harp glowing through the windowed fortress. We jumped in. The tires peeled. My baby sister described the harp’s shine to her amused mother. How badly Caroline wanted a harp. She had even written to Santa for one. She didn’t know what I knew. Santa had already bought her a harpsichord. It was the last Christmas purchase she had made right after the wrapping for the boys’ blankets.

We never knew it, but in those first few moments driving home, mother deeply questioned the meaning of helping where help didn’t seem to be needed. Those boys had more than she or hers ever would. The answer came quick, at the traffic light on the way home. Flashing behind her eyes, red and green, it spelled one word. C-o-m-p-a-s-s-i-o-n. Mother turned to dad and said, “I guess tonight we got to help meet an emotional need, not a physical one.” Yes, compassion knows no class structure. Or biases. Only pure love. And that night both mothers had managed, from separate realms, to teach their children the true meaning of Christmas.

The next day mother listened as her baby girl, surrounded by her parents and four siblings, transformed our family’s condo into a two-bedroom castle with music from her harpsichord. As Mother closed her eyes to enjoy the marvelous moment, a familiar angel voice spoke to her mind one last time, “It sounds just like my harp.”

Dear Mom [Week 3]

Hi Mom,

I am beginning to dread writing these letters more and more because I know it will just make me cry. Somewhere inside of me there is still a five-year-old little girl who just wants to be at home safe with her mom and dad. I never really realized that I have some form of anxiety until very recently. As a girl, I thought it was normal to obsess over bad people coming into our house at night to rob us or hurt us. I used to lay in my bed and repeatedly remind myself of your words that dad would never let anything happen to any of his babies. I logically and emotionally knew perfectly that what you said was true, but when the anxiety overtook me and I got really desperate, I would think about dad’s gun up in his closet. I knew dad could “take” almost anyone alive, but just in case a mob were to come, there was always the gun. It seems so silly now, but not really. I often talk to LG about whether or not he would actually fight for me or the kids. He’s such a gentle giant, I’m always worried I would have to do the fighting. Dad was a gentle giant too, and I know that he would fight, so I guess I should rest assured.

This photo came up on my facebook feed today. There is a way that facebook reminds you of your past posts. I took this exactly one year ago. Don’t you worry, the fact that dad is holding mine and Renee’s babies together is not lost on me. I can’t remember where we were when I took this. I want to say it was someone’s baptism. Eli’s? Isn’t it just so perfect?! Dad always had time for the children! What a wonderful dad. What a lucky bunch of kids. I can’t believe he looked this good just one year ago. He withered fast, didn’t he? It really is as if as soon as he knew Renee was taken care of, a part of him just moved on. Dangit. I wish we had him for just one more year. Heck, I’d take one more day, one more hour, one more minute. I wonder if I could spit out the words, “I love you,” in just a second? If I could add anything, it would be, “thank you.” He would know all of the thank you’s in my heart.

Thank you, dad, for giving me life. For loving my mother. For feeding me. For carrying me to the car when I cut off my toe, and for not being mad when I cut it off from being disobedient to your orders. For carrying me into the house every time when you knew I was just faking sleep. Thank you for the buckets at the beach. Thank you for baptizing me. Thank you for teaching me to love hard work. Thank you for disciplining me. Thank you for loving animals. Thank you for not beating me, even though you were beat. Thank you for working all of the time, so I could have clothes and a car to drive. Thank you for teaching me to drive stick shift, and for laughing at me when I stalled on the hills. Thank you for the many many adventures. Thank you for killing all the rattlesnakes. Thank you for the pep talk when Matt Jewell broke up with me and I cried for days on end. You told me it was his loss, and I believed you. Thank you for remodeling my bathroom in Tennessee while you were on vacation. Thank you for giving me a priesthood blessing before my mission that helped me realize much much later that LG was the man I was meant to marry. Thank you for loving my husband. Thank you for all the ways you’ve watched over my little family. Thank you for the KFC months ago and the TV that arrived at my house days after you died. Thank you for LG’s drill. Thank you for my electrical outlet in my garage. Thank you for another remodeled bathroom. Thank you for giving me the gumption to duct-tape stuff and keep driving, and the assurance that it would be okay. “What’s the worst that can happen?” I heard you say, as I pulled tentatively onto the freeway for a four-hour drive home. I wanted to call you to be certain, but I just left you sick in your hospital bed. The only way you could make me go back home to my family was to lie to me and tell me everything would be okay. Thank you for the last little talk we had in the hospital when I got uncomfortable. You made sure I listened. It was less than a month ago and I can’t even remember your exact words. You always understood how hard it was for me to listen, but whatever you said, because of its intensity, I knew you loved me and I knew you were proud of me, and I knew you believed in me and wanted me to be happy. I made sure you knew that I felt the same. How much you must have known I would need that for the rest of my life.

Mom, I’ll never forget that nurse’s baby boy that came to visit us at the hospital. It didn’t matter that dad was tired or in pain, he took that baby right up in his bed with him and loved on him. I was almost kind of jealous that it wasn’t Max, and as if dad read my mind, he proceeded to tell that nurse all about Max and how amazing he thought he was, how he could make a basket from any part of the room. I can’t even begin to describe how much it hurts to think that Max will never know his grandpa. I don’t think a second would be long enough, but I would give it to you anyway, mom. I would give it all to you. How you must be so lost without him.

I usually try to write these letters on Sundays when everyone is napping or occupied, so that I can cry and have time to myself. However, yesterday got away from me and I am writing in between subjects while I study in a little private study room at UVU. My eyes and brain were tired, so I decided I coul write as a break from reading and kill two birds with one stone. Bad idea. The study room has glass walls, and I am so glad I am up on the fifth floor where no one is around this late at night. It’s 9 pm. No one but crazy mothers study this late at night on campus. It’s a good thing because the tears are rolling freely down my face. I had to move my laptop farther from my eyes so that the puddle on the table wouldn’t ruin it.

I must get back to studying now, mom, but I don’t ever want to stop once I get started. It’s like you are right here with me. Like dad is right here, too. I wanted to tell you one thing right quick. I’m struggling with the working mom guilt. It’s so hard to let Max be cared for by someone else. He’s my baby!!! But, like dad taught me, I do what I have to do. So, to help with my guilt, I made homemade rolls this morning. It’s my first batch of rolls in the new Bosch mixer my mother-in-law got me for Christmas. Nine months without rolls tells you how insane my life has been. Anyhow, as I was taking the dough from the mixer to knead and cut, I had a flashback. It was after school. I was 7 or 8. Your mixer looked a lot like mine, but your dough was wheat. It smelled of yeast. My mouth was watering. I knew you loved me. I hope my kids knew of my love when they ate those rolls tonight. I wasn’t even home for dinner because I was here at school. I have learned that pursuing my own dreams is also something important to teach my children, but it sure is hard to spread myself so thin.

One last sidenote: LG gave everyone back-to-school blessings last night. We were late this year with all the craziness of the funeral and Abigail’s pep-talks taking a lot of our time, and my new job and stuff. So last night it was. I wish you could have been there, mom. In my blessing, LG talked a lot about my new job and how I should pray for my students because they are my fields. The scriptures say we should pray over our fields. And then, he got emotional. He stopped for a long time. Then whimpered. The spirit testified to me that whatever he would say next was something vital and true. He said, “Alice, your father is watching over you.” His voiced cracked as he cried. “Your earthly father.” “He will do everything in his power to help you, and he will always be there when you need him.” I think my immediate sobs kind of scared my kids, but maybe it will help them to have a greater appreciation for their dad who is alive, and for the priesthood. Such a beautiful moment, and I hate to write it here because I always publish these letters on my blog. That was truly sacred.

Well, I must go. It’s 9:03, and I have 150 more pages to read before class on Wednesday. Between work and other stuff I won’t have time to do it tomorrow. I love you, mom. Thank you for so many things. So, so, many things. I sit in my living room and smile. I look ever every thing that you carefully chose, just because you wanted me to have a nice room that was presentable. You didn’t want me to have to be embarrassed ever again. You gave me nicer things then you have ever given yourself. And when I get overwhelmed, I just sit on one of my two leather sofas and I look at my buffet table, and my rug, my pillows, my coffee table, and my colorful artwork above my mantle. I smile, not because it is all so lovely, but because I can feel you there loving me and cheering me on. I smiled yesterday thinking about how one of dad’s last gifts to you was bringing you up two weekends in a row, and letting you go crazy. He never said a word of reprimand. Then I got up, and keep at my life. Just like right now.

I’ll write you again next week. I wonder if I will ever be able to write one of these letters without crying. I hope so. I hope not. Our crying is what connects us. Big boob babies.

Dear Mom [Week 2]

Hi mom,

You probably haven’t even read my first letter yet, as you’ve been on the road. I’ll send this one to you up the street, and then you’ll get the first one when you get back home. I smiled so big when you told me how sad you would be to miss my letter on mail day because my only goal in writing is to give you something to look forward to.

And how many things you’ve given me to look forward to throughout my life. Christmas was always such a joy. I’ll never forget the early years when dad would always pull out his loud video camera and his ultra-bright light. I’m trying to remember the exact sound of the camera, but memory fails. Darnit. I will have to ask Adam the next time I see him. Mom, one of the things I really loved doing with you was going to get the special treatment for school dances. You really knew how to make a girl feel special. You never made me worry about money and you always told me that a girl had to splurge once in awhile. Getting my hair done was always traumatic, but oh how I loved going to the make-up counter. I remember my senior year when we bought a read MAC lipstick. I can still taste the color on my lips. That was a fancy lipstick and even though I may have looked like a prostitute sporting that color, I felt like a princess. Thanks mom for those dances, Christmases, and so many other things.

My intention in writing these letters is to keep dad’s memory alive. I know when Kristen Dillon died it helped me a lot just to get together with other friends and talk about the crazy stuff we did. You and I just saw each other last night where we all talked about dad and his temper. Renee got uncomfortable and said she only wanted to remember the good stuff about dad. Annette commented that it is good to remember the whole person. I especially agree. Dad had very little wrong with him. In fact, his temper might be the only thing I can even think of, and as I mentioned in my last letter, dad kicked all of his anger and aggression to the curb years ago. I hope I can learn to do the same, but earlier in life.

When we went to lunch on Saturday, you just kept on with the tradition of giving me something to look forward to. I LOVED shopping with you, even though you wouldn’t let me pay! I will get you back for that. You must learn to accept love instead of giving it all of the time. God will not let you go and be with dad until you do, so you better learn it quick. I know you don’t want to burden your kids with taking care of you. We will do whatever you need, just as you have done for us, but we would rather that you let us pay for some stuff than God giving you really bad health until you HAVE to take from us. Anyhow, it was so much fun just to be with you. You made shopping for the kids much more tolerable, especially when you insisted that I buy some shoes for myself. I love you mom. I loved just sitting with you at Carls Jr. and looking out the window and talking about how we both thought dad would be coming back somehow. One thing I love about you is that I know you enjoyed our silly fast-food lunch as much as you did your Melting Pot dinner with Adam and Renee. I wish I was one of your rich kids, so I could spoil you rotten, but I take peace of mind in knowing that you find the joy in every little thing. You’ve taught me well that way. I love to just stop and look at the mountains with you, or smile over the fact that Caroline came running up to make sure you didn’t need help up the walkway at the park. Life really is beautiful.

Well, I already told you about my dinner date with LG on Friday night. I got so upset that we had to skip the concert we’ve been looking forward to all summer. LG asked, “Why are you crying?” I am sure I embarrassed him by crying at our table like I did, probably more so than if he was just wearing underwear. I bet everyone at the restaurant thought we were fighting. I had stepped outside for like ten minutes because I had a really bad pain in my shoulder. Well, I think that they can all just kiss their nosy selves all the way to the kitchen, but LG struggles more with delivering on those expected appropriate and formal behaviors. I answered LG, “I just want my dad back.” And, oh how I do. My chimichunga was so lonely too, and must have been terribly discouraged when it was put into a to-go box and stuck in our fridge later. Only two bites were missing. It sure didn’t taste half as good as it did fresh when it came out of the Styrofoam box for “after church, we aren’t cooking anything” left-overs.

I think four things brought on my emotional outburst. First, my pain. I think it was just gas. I get the pains in the same place on the front of my shoulder from time to time. But, after dad’s death, I was so scared the pain was my heart. I was also really hurting. I tried to stretch it out, but it wouldn’t go away. It made me feel sad for all the severe pain dad tried to champion through for the last years of his life. Second, while I was stretching my shoulder outside the restaurant, our waiter came out and sat next to me. I believe he was done with work for the night. He is a cute 18-year-old kid from the Ukraine. He recognized us from Wendy’s where he used to work. Yes, we do love feeding our whole family for $8 now and again. Anyhow, he’s moved up to work at the Mexican joint. He got off his bike and asked if he could sit with me. We talked about him and his sister being adopted three years ago from an orphanage in the Ukraine. He is such a positive kid. He talked about how he loved the orphanage because his caretaker was such a sweet caring lady. We discussed his pending career choices and his educational aspirations. I sat thinking about you and dad: how you conditioned me to make friends in the most unlikely of places. Guess what? His name was John! Anyhow, ten minutes later LG came out and asked if I wanted to go home. OOPS. When I got back inside, he had eaten his whole meal. As I apologized, and continued rubbing out my pain in my arm, I looked at the avocado on my plate and started tearing up. Reason #3 Then I got sad because my shoulder hurt so bad, I had only drank 1/8th of my $4 soda. Then I looked at the drink menu, and tried to pick out dad’s favorite. I knew he used to love rootbeer, but I couldn’t think of what he would drink now if he were still alive. I think he would ask for coke in the hospital. Well, if they didn’t have v-8. My tears turned into a burst dam at reason #4. That’s when it got real awkward. Poor LG. He is such a saint. How I love him, just like you love dad.

Remember how dad used to always ask waitresses to bring him a pitcher of water. They always thought he was joking, but he never was. I laughed when we were down at Brennon’s wedding. We had been outside the temple for about an hour in the heat of the sun, and when we got to the restaurant, we were all parched. I asked for a pitcher of water, and the waiter thought I was joking. I wasn’t joking. He brought us all two glasses instead of a pitcher. He still had to refill mine twice.

Oh mom, I wish you lived closer, and I wish I had more time on my hands. I just love you. I want to spend every waking moment with you before you are gone too. How I wish I would have spent more time with dad in the last five years since we moved back to Utah.

So, I must go to do homework now. I still have a whole book to read and two papers to write. I’ve been trying to get to it all day. It’s a holiday, and after cooking breakfast, cleaning house, calendaring out the upcoming crazy week (with three people working and two cars), paying school fees ($500!!), doing some laundry, and making final preparations for my first ESL class tomorrow (I’m a teacher!!! Can you believe it?), I am just now sitting down to do homework. Of course, I just used the last half hour warming up my writing-skills with this letter. Oh, and that sentence before the last was such a run-on. The best thing about English is that you can break the rules. I think that is why I love it so much. I’m a rule-breaker, just like my dad. WHY CAN’T THEY JUST BRING A PITCHER OF WATER?!?! I’m breaking a true cardinal rule by publishing this without even checking for errors.

Anyhow, I’ll leave you for the week with the memory I don’t want to forget at the DI on Saturday. I’m looking through the shoes, and the piano music hits my ear from the other side of the store. It’s an old-timey piano version of a hymn. I can’t remember which. My body walks toward it. The piano player was a beautiful elderly Polynesian woman. I watched her in awe. How grateful I was for the moment of serenity. She reminded my of Sister Cabacungan. Her dress was a white polynesian style with large-print blue orchid flowers. I thought that dad must be getting a very similar concert on the other side. And as I peeled myself away, she ended her first song. You’ll never guess what the second one that she played was. HOW GREAT THOU ART. It was like a sign from dad telling me that my idea was true. I thought of the lyrics, and one tear ran down my cheek. I will never hear that song again without thinking of dad, especially at the part: “and hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees.” How I wish we recorded dad whistling like the birds!

A few minutes later, that teenage kid took over. You went to thank him for playing such uplifting songs. Then you and I went back to the shoe racks. And, then he played one of my most favorite songs. I looked it up on my phone so you could hear the words. We both had a good bawl right there in the aisle. It felt really good to cry with you.

I’ll include the words here for you to read. They are just so perfect! I wish you could get on your computer and hit the link that I am including in my blog post, so you could listen again any time you need to cry. I’m watching it now, having myself a good cleanse before getting back to homework. The celtic sound is so heavenly. I love you mom. I love you so much.

In the quiet misty morning
When the moon has gone to bed,
When the sparrows stop their singing
And the sky is clear and red,
When the summer’s ceased its gleaming
When the corn is past its prime,
When adventure’s lost its meaning –
I’ll be homeward bound in time

Bind me not to the pasture
Chain me not to the plow
Set me free to find my calling
And I’ll return to you somehow

If you find it’s me you’re missing
If you’re hoping I’ll return,
To your thoughts I’ll soon be listening,
And in the road I’ll stop and turn

Then the wind will set me racing
As my journey nears its end
And the path I’ll be retracing
When I’m homeward bound again

Bind me not to the pasture
Chain me not to the plow
Set me free to find my calling
And I’ll return to you somehow
(softly)
In the quiet misty morning
When the moon has gone to bed,
When the sparrows stop their singing
I’ll be homeward bound again.