The Distance to Liberty Hill

Sometimes you don't realize the blessing you've received in relationship until the sweetest ones of your life land at your door once again... and you realize that distance has not changed you, only separated you, and you love each other as much as ever.

I used to live in a place called Liberty Hill, and when my heart thinks of home, my imagination runs to that door. Friends live there, and some don't live there though you forget that sometimes because they always come, in a sweet community and fellowship of girls at the foot of the Rockies. They laugh and the door revolves and somehow the pragmatic sense of everyday life does not touch the charm and captive idealism that sparkles with the high-altitude sun and azure sky that always seem to shine down on the garden parties and birthdays and snow days. I found myself there, and I grew and changed and somehow they loved me anyway.

They become part of you, you become part of them. A heart sisterhood.  And if you leave, part of them comes with you.

I left them to move to the Dominican Republic. They encouraged me to do it. "Within a year, you're going to find yourself on a plane headed to Latin America," Nicole prophesied. "If you don't do it, you're going to be sorry you never did," Lauren once told me. Though she couldn't say goodbye to me when time came for me to go. "See ya buddy," was all she said, and turned her face away.

We all like the going, but none of us like goodbyes.

The in-between times last long... mottled with bright spots when we write or talk or visit. And I sometimes wonder why I left.

The hellos seem just that much sweeter.