When I was a child , as soon as I could daydream, I pictured myself leaving home—working as a foreign correspondent in Europe (inspired by my dad's WWII experiences), or living in New York City and dancing on Broadway (inspired by Aunt Eloise, my dad's sister). Of course, I didn't know whether or not either of those dreams would come true, but I felt that the first step was to leave home—to move and breathe in a larger, busier, better place.

A good friend of the family suggested Boston as a city where I might find the opportunities I longed for. I liked the idea, and with my mother's help, I began planning and preparing for that move.

Finally, the day of departure arrived. Everything was set: A job was waiting for me at a publishing company, accommodations had been located; my trunk had been packed and shipped; flight reservations had been made. I was eager to go, ready to begin my adventure. I dressed with care, imagining how a "city girl" should look, and with a small suitcase in hand, left for the airport with my mom and younger brother.

At the departure gate we hugged and kissed goodbye, shedding a few tears, as the bond that had held us so close for so long was stretched enough for me to leave the family circle I loved.

My airplane landed in Boston in cold, wet, midwinter weather: big airport; lots of people, noise, hubbub; I, with suitcase in tow, find a cab. Slow trip into the city; traffic; horns blow rudely; I, with growing dismay, am dropped unceremoniously at my lodgings. Old, large, grimy building; gray skies; cold rain; nobody at home. I find the landlady's note, hide my suitcase behind a bush, locate her at her office, get the key. In my new room, it hits me: I'm alone ... not at home ... in a strange city. The adventure isn't fun anymore. I want my mother. Tears flow. Fear grips, and builds. Life hasn't begun; it has stopped. I want to go home!

Homesick. Sick for, longing for, home. It had happened before—at camp, at cousins', at friends'. But those were short visits, easily ended. This was major separation. And I was miserable.

The first days blur in my memory. I went to church, reported for work, began to make new friends and acquaintances, learned my way around a little. The days were full, but the longing for home and Mother did not abate. I was so determined to make an early exit from Boston that I kept my trunk packed—and enough money for the return-trip home. Meanwhile, I shed many tears and made a lot of calls home.

One day, alone in my room, sobbing, I heard a knock on my door.  The landlady had heard me crying, again. Exasperated, she came to my room. "You really must stop this, dear! You are disturbing the peace of my home."

I stopped crying (there would be no sympathy from her, it seemed). She turned to leave. Paused. Turned to me again.

"Why are you crying?" she asked.

"Because I'm afraid I'll never see my mother again," I blurted, sobbing anew. She paused.

"My dear, don't you realize that if you are afraid, you are not trusting God?"

My tears stopped—immediately. The landlady left. I sat appalled at the thought of not trusting God. The God I had learned about in Sunday School, the God I loved and trusted, the God I read about daily in the Bible and in the Christian Science textbook, Science and Health, the God I knew as my Father-Mother— the Mother from whom I could never be separated, with whom I was always at home, by whom I was loved, cared for, watched over.

My landlady's intervention was the beginning of the end of my homesickness. I focused on learning my new job, had more fun with friends, learned more about my new city, started having a life.

The trunk remained packed, however, and the ticket cash stashed. I just couldn't entirely let go of home, and Mother.

Time passed. The cold, damp winter turned into a lovely, warm spring. Trees and flowers were blooming in the park that I walked through daily, to and from the office. Sights and sounds and smells of spring, however, reminded me of home. My homesickness returned in full force.

Suddenly, that was it! I would go home to Ohio for good. I'd had enough of adventure. That night I would call Mother.

Wanting privacy for the call, I left my room to walk through the park to a telephone booth at the corner of a busy intersection. But before I could make that call, my Mother—my Father-Mother God, that is—spoke to me as clearly as if someone right by my side were talking to me.

These are the words I heard; they're from one of my favorite hymns:

I felt so loved, so precious to Her, that I turned around and went back to my room.

I felt liberated, as if released from prison. I was happy and eager to get on with my new life in Boston. The longing for home was gone. I was free to grow up, make a life and career, establish my own home. Suddenly I was able to see my adopted city with new eyes, eyes that saw beauty and goodness in the present, and looked, unafraid, to the future.

When I returned to my room, my home, I opened my hymnbook to read the words of that hymn that had turned me around a few moments earlier. In another verse, I found these words:

Guess what I did then. I unpacked that trunk!

Although there were many visits to Ohio over the following years, I never went back to live there. Boston became my home. I met my husband there and enjoyed a long and satisfying career at the publishing company.

That healing was a real turning point for me because I learned that my home doesn't depend on the presence of parents of friends or spouses. Since my Father-Mother God is always with me, my home is where I am. It's in me, with me. How can I leave it behind?