You were 23 when you moved to a foreign place. You were on an adventure. You were full of dreams and sunny expectations. You had such a brave face, afraid to let the ones you loved worry. You were so lonely that spring.

Do you remember that day at your secretary desk? You were making a call to follow up on an order you placed with Gopher Sports, a sporting goods company in Minnesota. You called the customer service line, and a cheerful northern voice answered on the other end, a voice from a place that sounded like home. You nearly cried for the joy of something familiar. The order issue was quickly resolved, and you actually told the lady on the other end that her northern accent made your day. Bless your heart. You were so sad, but you didn’t have words for the way you felt. You were caught between the beauty of a well-loved place, and the making of a new one. Those were the hardest days of forging a new home, the days when every morning, joy felt like a new battle to fight.

Those were also the days of you deciding: you deciding home was worth the effort. Those were the days you bought a lawn mower to take care of the front yard, a lawn mower without an engine, because it just felt right to handle it in your own strength. Those were the days of wearing yourself out gardening until the sun went down, of eating big salads for dinner, because lettuce was cheap, and of welcoming friends and travelers almost every summer weekend. Those were the days of learning the freedom of giving what you have honestly, no facades or play-acting. Those were the days of loving and of being loved in the stickiest, messiest places.

That was the beginning.