Yesterday we flew back to Menya after two days of frantic preparation. Our third time flying in with the whole family was also my third time scrambling through flight-day-eve delivering supplies to the hanger, cutting items from our load to meet the weight limit and toiling past midnight with last minute tasks. My least favorite task is cleaning out the fridge because there is always a partially used bottle of ketchup. What do we do with it? It’s a waste to throw it away, but not worth the weight/space to fly it back with us. I don’t know if the veterans are better at this, but we certainly haven’t figured it out. We gave it to a friend at Lapilo.
When we arrived at our house in Menya with the entire plane load I was relieved. It was nice to relax for a bit at home–it was the first time coming to Menya felt like coming home. But feeling that way, I started thinking, “Is Menya our home?” I like to think of America as home. I thought of the line, “home is where the heart is.” Too cheesy. Then I thought maybe home is where my stuff is. But my stuff is in as least five locations in two countries. I decided home is where we finish the ketchup.