Homecomings, Family, and Quiet Joy: A Visit Back to Montana
I’ve always loved a good story—listening to them, reading them, and sometimes telling a few of my own.
I began blogging 14 years ago and, for many of those years, wrote simply for the joy of it. I didn’t know much about growing a blog, monetizing it, or mastering SEO. I wrote about real life for real people, and I’m still happiest when my words reach a human heart.
If you’re new here: sweet Momma went to be with Jesus on New Year’s Eve five years ago.
Right now I’m sitting at my desk with birds singing outside, feeling a gentle culture shock. Yesterday I was driving down a Montana road with my sister, and today I’m back in my island home in British Columbia. For the past ten days I walked the familiar roads and revisited the places that shaped my childhood.
I turned down the long driveway of my childhood home, a place full of sounds, smells, and memories. I watched cows at their favorite feeding spot, stood in awe of the sunsets and mountain views that never seemed to lose their beauty, and walked the halls of my high school with a mix of nostalgia and gratitude.
That old house—over a hundred years old and now lovingly restored by my brother and sister-in-law—still feels like the heart of our family. I visited the rooms where we grew up and sat where we once gathered to share stories and laughter. Seeing the home repaired and refreshed was a quiet blessing.
We celebrated my mother’s 81st birthday with hours of singing around the piano—an old, familiar ritual that softened any distance time had introduced. I kissed her cheek, told her I love her, and felt a deep gratitude for the simple gift of being together. Even as dementia has quieted her voice, small gestures—like her finger tapping the arm of her wheelchair in time with our song—let me know that some part of her remains present and connected.
The trip was full: travel, visits, planning, shopping, much hugging, and a lot of laughing. I reconnected with siblings, nieces and nephews, and the next generation of the family—those tiny, busy people who fill a house with energy. We shared memories of loss and love, and in those conversations I was reminded how family walks together through grief and joy alike.
One quiet wish I had for the visit was to sing the lullaby my mother used to sing to us. I didn’t say it aloud, but when the moment came, all five of us children sang together. I managed to sing without breaking down, and that shared song became a treasure—a memory of connection in a season that can often feel uncertain.
Coming home to my island life was sweet, too. My husband welcomed me back with warmth, and I returned with stories and a heart full of gratitude. Being far from family can bring a quiet ache, but it also deepens the appreciation for every reunion.
My family has walked with me through seasons of sorrow and seasons of joy. Because of faith, there is comfort and the hope that joy and blessing can coexist with sadness. This trip reminded me that home is not just a place, but a web of relationships—memories, songs, laughter, and the people who stand by you.
PS. That photograph of my childhood home now shows my brother and sister-in-law’s renovated farmhouse. It stands as a reminder that places change, memories endure, and love makes a house a home. For a look inside, see a little tour.
