Thinking about coming home

            I remember Jan. 1, 2003 in bittersweet snippets. Putting suitcases in the trunk. Seeing the sign for Intercontinental Airport looming ahead.

            And then those final moments of hugging my eldest son before he boarded a plane for Taipei, Taiwan, to follow a dream.

            This move shouldn't have been a surprise as Nick was always filled with wanderlust. He spent one summer in the jungles of Guatemala. For three months, he lived in Spain, performing as a Ninja street mime to pay for his food and lodging.

            And then there was the summer he lived on the beach in St. Thomas, making friends with a wealthy family and then working for them while living in a tropical paradise. After all that, I thought he'd seen enough of the world and was ready to settle down.

            I was wrong.

            He wanted to experience the Far East, and he heard Taiwan was not only friendly to foreigners but English was a primary language there.

            He had a few friends already working in Taipei, so he applied for a job as an English teacher and was hired. For a while, I thought he was joking and he'd not really leave the country for more than a few weeks.

            But when he packed his winter clothes in the attic, sold his truck and closed out his bank account, I knew he wasn't kidding.

 

To The Far East

            To travel to a foreign land to live with nothing more than a dream was much more adventurous than I could ever be or hope to be.

            Still, on that first day of 2003, I hugged him and wished him the best as he waved goodbye from the airport's passenger drop-off spot.

            I cried all the way back home. Then I told myself to stop because I knew I was being selfish.

            From the minute our children get here, we prepare them for life. We teach them to be independent, to make decisions and encourage them to spread their wings.

            Nick was simply doing what we'd raised him to do and I came to realize I was truly blessed, knowing our son was healthy and able to follow his dream.

            Still, I missed those days of knowing he might drop by for dinner or unexpectedly call just to chat. My two younger sons lovingly filled the void, and Nick's conversations, emails and video posts about his adventures put smiles on our faces.

            Nick was having a wonderful time as a DJ and as an English teacher for pre-schoolers and he had a successful business in the night market. He learned to speak, read and write Chinese and was quite adept at maneuvering around Taipei on a motor scooter.

            He traveled all over the Far East, from Japan to Viet Nam to the Philippines and once down to South America. He appeared on television shows and in magazine articles, and his services as an American rapper who sang in Chinese were in demand.

            He'd made friends from Australia, England, Scotland, France and Spain. He climbed mountains, hiked in jungles and learned to speak, read and write Chinese.

            During our last phone call, I sensed something was amiss, and Nick said he's considering returning to the States next year. Ten years, he said, was a long time to be away from family and friends.

            Outwardly, I was uttering reassuring phrases – whatever you want to do is fine, I know you'll make the right decision and I'll support whatever you do.

            But there was only one prayer in my heart.

            Come home.

            Please come home.

        This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.