Coming Home

Coming home is a magnificent experience, assuming of course that you have a home to come home too.

I live in a smallish town in a beautiful part of the Western Cape. Mountains surround us, the sea is a full seven minute drive away, the roads are wide and well maintained, trees are large, and gardens beautiful.

But that is not why coming home is so magnificent. I have my own car at home, my office is at home, my house is comfortable, the garden lush, with a stream that runs through it, providing fresh water all year long.

But that is not it at all.

No, coming home is all about people. To have Matt charging through the crowds at the airport and launch himself into my arms, and then cling to my neck and produce his famous tight squeeze bear hug. To talk with Luke and hear of his exploits, and to notice that although he is fully boy, he is growing up all the time in imperceptible ways. To hug my wife, inhale her sweet fragrance, bury my head in her hair, rub her growing belly, and know that this is the rock who will always be at my side.

Coming home is also about all of our friends that line our street and it is about the phone calls to mates and family, who don’t live in our street, to catch up on the latest in their lives.

Family and friends! Is there anything more important in our lives? I don’t want to leave again, not for a long time...