I’m home, by the way. Landed safe – and at least somewhat sound – late Wednesday night.
Our long road home began with a ride to the bus station at 2:25 a.m. Swedish time. Our taxi driver asked where we were from. Idaho, we told him. He shook his head and shrugged. We laughed and told him he wasn’t alone – there are people in the United States who do not even know where Idaho is located. He asked if it was out East. No, we replied, West. The wild, wild West. He nodded and laughed. We asked where he was from. Iran, he said. Do you like Sweden? We asked. No, he replied. So you plan to go back someday? Yes, he said, he hoped to … he paused, shook his head, shrugged … but he doesn’t know.
I’ve thought a lot about that taxi driver in the last few days. He opened my eyes to just how lucky I am. Despite the flights, the layovers, the annoying flight attendant, the rude TSA agents, the dirty airports, the hoardes of people, the exhaustion, and the sadness, I was coming home. I was coming home to family and friends – to my house, my garden, my kits – to a peaceful existance.
And yes, I realize that human nature dictates there will always be the haves and the have nots. There will always be those who take advantage of the weak and disadvantaged – and those who must fight to subdue them. But it will not stop me from hoping – and praying – for that elusive world peace. After all, everyone deserves the right to come home …