There's no place like home.

Our plane touched down to the breathtaking (literally, at 14,000 ft.), freezing runway in El Alto, Bolivia at 2:50 am.  Moses had woken up about 30 mins before and was exercising his lungs to the consternation of a plane full of sleepy passengers.  We tumbled out of the plane and lined up at customs.  As usual, Mo was grouchy, Jubilee was ashen and Natty was fine.  After picking up our 10 suitcases, we rolled out into the night where our friend Leo was waiting with our truck to drive us home.  The air was crisp and I was more than ready to start the descent to our house and our beds.  We were soon winding through the dark, pot-holed streets.  Out of one open doorway I spied the vulgar red fluorescent light of a brothel and took a sec to pray for our missionary friends whose lives are spent bringing hope to the women who are trapped there.  45 minutes later, we arrived to the welcome sight of our tall, brick house, the top of Natty's eucalyptus tree peeking over the wall.  The dogs welcomed us with big, wagging tails, while the kids and I stumbled upstairs and collapsed into bed.  The next two days we unpacked bags, organized belongings and went shopping for food- 2 supermarkets, one produce market, one organic chicken store and the local market got us started for meals.  One-stop shopping definitely is not a thing here.  I kept marveling at the strangeness of everything, but how familiar and homey it has become to us.  All of the stuff that makes this developing world unique and sometimes annoying, has also become our normal.  The U.S. is mostly comfortable and definitely plush but has become somewhat unknown and intimidating.  I am so thankful that we have a house here- a place that has our touches, our memories, our design inside and out.  There is always a bitter-sweetness about leaving behind loved ones and friends in the states, but there's no place like home.