This morning, I took our labradoodle to the groomer. He was very good, until we walked through the door and stood at the counter to get him signed in. Then, he started shaking all over.
I was still feeling guilty when I saw my husband some time later and described how anxious our dog Max was when I dropped him off.
"Does it make you want to go and rescue him even though the groomers haven't called yet to say he's done."
I smiled at my husband, and said, "It does! It's like when we were kids back in elementary school. Do you remember getting sick and just wanting to go home? You wanted to be nowhere else, but home. And then your mom walks through the door, and you have that sense of relief, that sense that your mom personifies everything you equate with being home."
We talked about how excited our dog will be when I show up later today to retrieve him.
Coming home to the Catholic Church was like this for me. I was that little girl again, unwell and sitting in the nurse's office at school, waiting for my mother . . . sensing the longing to be home.
To just be home.
To know that everything will be fine, if I can just get home.
And Mother Church shows up and you realize she personifies all that is meant by going home. And your spirit sighs deeply, knowing that "all will be well, and all manner of things will be well" (as Julian of Norwich says) because you are home once again.