Yesterday morning I called home to wish The Dad a happy Father’s Day. He wasn’t there, The Mom informed me.  I prepared to leave a message with her and quickly finish getting ready for church, but she went on to tell me that he was down at the golf club’s sauna.  I paused in my closet (yes, I can actually stand inside my closet these days, as opposed to the closet I had in New York, which I could only stand in front of).  “The sauna?” I repeated, certain I had misheard.  She went on to explain that The Dad likes to hit the sauna after the gym, or just hit the sauna period, then shower at the club.  Recently he pointed out to her that their water bill had gone down since he started this routine.  I had to laugh, thinking that my family is headed toward starring in a reality show that no one watches.

After that call, the BF and I set out to accomplish another first for us, this time in the form of visiting a new church.  This process is fraught with complications for me.  The first is that we are coming from Redeemer Presbyterian in New York City, home of wonder-pastor Tim Keller, a name known well outside the evangelical community, author of the New York Times bestseller The Reason for God and multiple other books.  Redeemer’s presentation of the Gospel, and Tim’s preaching in particular, converted my faith from a performance-based achievement ladder to a daily walk of reliance that I love.  Tim quotes Sartre and Camus almost as regularly as the Bible.  He always brings it back to the cross.  He’s an intellectual.  Listening to his voice doesn’t give you the feeling of being on a roller coaster: up, down, up, down.  He is even-keeled and logical.

In short, everything most Southern ministers are not.

I’m something of a Southern anomaly.  When I was younger and heard of the magical land of New York City, I was intrigued. Buildings touching the sky, lights canvassing every square mile, Broadway shows…but what appealed to me most was the rumor that in New York, you could be walking down the street and pass within inches of someone and not even have to say hello. To my Southern mind, such behavior was unheard of.  In the Southern etiquette handed down to me by my foremothers, such crassness was not permitted.  But for my painfully introverted personality, this possibility sounded glorious.  A place existed where I could spend an entire day surrounded by people without being expected to acknowledge any of them.  I think that’s when the seed of desire to live in Manhattan began to grow for me.

In addition to my eschewing of etiquette for comfort, another non-Southern thing about me was my constant need to know why things were the way they were, and “because that’s the way it’s always been” was never a sufficient answer.  I never saw the need to place a doily beneath every damn drink served, and “bless her heart” began to sound like an insult the more I heard it. And as far as the “Jesus loves you” routine went, that was fine by me until the life I planned began crumbling before my eyes and Jesus began to look less like a Good Shepherd and more like a Mean Bully.

What to do with the girl who can’t find her place below the Mason-Dixon?  Expatriate her to an island full of similar misfits and watch as she either sinks or swims.

Well, I didn’t sink, and Redeemer provided my best swim lessons.  Which is why I’m having such a hard time returning to the region of my youth and hearing messages about self-improvement cloaked in hymns and dressed up with stained glass.  To me, faith is so much less about me than most people preach it to be.  Also, down here, I’m finding that the Six Flags over Jesus movement is catching on with a fervor.  Which means that the BF and I are going to have many more Sundays like yesterday, when the church service began with a light show and a rock concert.  The music leaders were covered in sweat and tattoos (the ink actually appealed to my Manhattan-honed sense of rebellion).  And, printed on the back of the program, was the following:

Warning for Epileptics: This service contains flashing lights that may cause difficulties for people with photosensitive epilepsy.

Oh, how I ached for Tim and the plain black shirt and khakis he wears each week up at his unadorned podium.

Okay, so hear me here: I don’t want to sound like one of those “Um, YEAH I lived in New York for like five years, whatever, who the eff are you and where is my twenty-dollar glass of wine?  Aren’t this town and its customs so quaint!”  jerks. The fact that Jesus had to haul my ass a thousand miles north and onto a tiny island to get me right in the head (and heart) is the stuff of humility, not a bragging right. But I will always struggle with monitoring my own inner commentary and praying for the grace to make it less about judgment than observation.  I’m also learning to not jump to the conclusion that earnestness is always a cover for something else just because my starting point is most often jaded sarcasm and earnestness, for me, has been more reflective of a people-pleasing nature than a sincere one throughout my years.

All of which is to say, that the next time I walk into a church and hear the bass thumping, I will try to remember that God is big enough for all kinds of music; that he travels between solemn austerity and blatant excess while managing to avoid both; that heaven has room for people who use doilies and those who do not; and that JC is neither solely Southern nor totally Yankee.  Just like me.

Friday was my day to get things done.  Tooling around in my CRV, I opened the sunroof and blasted the XM.  I hit Super Target, Total Wine (oh…my…heaven), and Barnes and Noble.  I had been eyeing Rick Steves’ guide to Paris for weeks but refused to buy it at its New York price.  Looking at it on the shelf, checking out its more reasonable Atlanta price, I still wondered if I should get it.  I mean, the pictures were sparse–and in black and white.  And there were a lot of words!  In short, it looked pretty boring.  I felt the call of the chick-lit section then wondered if Stieg Larsson’s latest had come out.  The tour tome still in my hand, I decided to be a big girl and take some responsibility for learning about the city I was about to visit.  I’ve always depended on other people for that, which is why I walked away from Italy learning that Siena is very old and…um…wine.  There was wine.  I took the book to the counter and paid for it, even picking up a Barnes and Noble membership in the process and striking up a lovely conversation with the cashier about Paris.  The last time I struck up a conversation with a bookstore cashier was at Borders on 30th and 2nd in the city, where the dude asked if I was writing a nonfiction book (I was purchasing How to Sell Your Nonfiction Book) and learned that he was, as well.  On Korean cinema.  Niche! I thought.  Doubt I’ll hear anyone around these parts say that, which I am totally fine with.

So I headed home to unload a trunk full of wine and food, and my trusty guide.  A few minutes later, I was sitting on the couch waiting for the BF to get home so we could hit Brio.  Wondering what to do with myself for the next half hour (I had already reached my limit for the day of checking email and Facebook), I grudgingly grabbed Rick Steves and opened the pages like a kid doing her homework.  I breezed through the section on what to bring until I reached the part where he told me that to travel in Europe, my passport would need to be good for another four to six months.  Lame, I thought, what’s the point of the expiration date if it expires months before that? Then, another thought:  Where is my passport? I pictured various spots in my mind, all of which were located in New York apartments.  I ran to the bathroom, checking cabinets.  Damn all this space! I ran to the other bathroom, checking those cabinets.  I checked my underwear drawer, where I used to keep it and actually turns out to be a good place for it.  Except it wasn’t there.  On the verge of tears, I re-checked the bathroom drawer I had just visited and found it.  Sigh of relief.  Then:  Wait…when does it expire? I opened the cover and, in slow motion, followed the type to the expiration date. February 14, 2010. NOOOOOO!!!!!!

The next few minutes were adrenaline-pumped and tear-stained.  I alternately ran Google searches on expedited passports, cried, asked God why, ran more searches, called some leads, found out how much I would be paying for this mistake, and cried again. When the BF got back, I told him what happened.  He smiled non-mockingly at my tears and got the rundown from me: the soonest I could get a new passport would be Wednesday.  We were flying out Tuesday.  He called British Airways and, as I sniffled in the fetal position a few feet away, postponed our flight one day.  I called the nearest passport expediting company and booked an appointment for the next day.  It should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: at no point during this debacle did the BF look at me like I was as stupid as I felt, nor did he once use any pronoun other than we.  I messed up, but it was fixable, and I had help.  Good thing one of us is rational.

Of course, he and the Sis both made the point later that it was a blessing I had checked my passport when I did, rather than finding out at the airport that I would not, in fact, be going to Europe this week.  Oh yeah…silver linings and such, I thought.  I tend to forget about those until someone on my team reminds me.  Back when my plans used to get frustrated at every turn (because they were terrible plans), I would wonder why God picked on me so much.  Now, as I prepare to board a flight with the BF and spend a week with him in England and Paris, I can see what He kept me from–and saved me for.

It figures.  It figures that the first pangs of missing New York would hit me over food.  The BF and I were graciously gifted with dinner at the local tapas place in our new neighborhood–his brother and sister-in-law (how do I refer to them?  I’m going with BIL and SIL, because you can never have too many initials as identification in one post) gave us a certificate for Eclipse di Luna, knowing our affinity for all plates small and multiple.  We went with the Sis and Bro-in-Law, my side of the family (whew…family-combining is complicated!  Note to self: figure out a handy title for everyone soon, or have them sign waivers so I can use their real names).  We spent the evening over a table full of wine and tiny dishes.  Not bad for a Saturday night.

The night before, the BF and I had walked down the street for dinner at Brio, my favorite Italian chain.  We sat outside under an awning and watched the rain intermittently patter onto the lake in front of us. A lone duck waddled around the patio, refusing to leave because of the kids (since when are they allowed in restaurants?  Since we left New York) who kept throwing bread in his direction.  Ugh…I thought, kids AND ducks…but by the end of the meal, I was digging into the bread basket our waitress brought and lobbing hunks over the railing to the birds floating below.  If you can’t beat ’em…

Saturday afternoon, the BF and I hosted friends and family to our resort-style pool, where we were again greeted with intermittent rain that was no match for our umbrella.  These late-afternoon Southern thunderstorms, with their 40% chances reflected on www.weather.com daily, have been a stranger to me for five years.  I’ve forgotten how quickly they come and go, how the sky can drip even while the sun is shining brightly.  There are a few things I’ve forgotten, in fact.  The mosquitoes that gnaw on every inch of available bare skin, turning my legs into a red-and-white constellation and leaving me with spots to scratch for days….the blasting air conditioners, central of course, that take me from sweat-drenched to icy-cold in seconds…the red-state patriotism evident everywhere from bumper stickers to church services.

All of these things used to be my normal.  Now I find they take some re-getting used to.

For the late-afternoon drenchings, I find that sitting by a pool helps, as does a new car with good windshield wipers.  For the mosquito bites, there is Off spray or the handy tabletop diffuser that the SIL wisely brought to the cookout.  For the heat and A/C combo I have a big purse with room for both a water bottle and a sweater.  For the red-state patriotism I have my own brand of conservatism, which started out blindingly red itself but has since been tempered with the idea of social justice and the discovery that Jesus was not, in fact, a member of the NRA or Republican party.  (Nor was he a Democrat, so suck it.)

But as for the tapas…I have a feeling we are never going to find our Alta or Sala or Stanton Social here in the ATL.  The realization of that hit me with more power than the disappointment of finding undercooked bacon on my small plate.  “That” being bigger than a restaurant…”That” being all that I’ll miss and sometimes even pine for post-relocation.  And what is “that” exactly?, I asked myself as I took a second to reflect in the bathroom.

So much of my New York experience was tied to being a part of something, and the identity that inclusion gave me.  I had no idea when I moved there what a living, breathing organism New York City would turn out to be.  Or what a premium I would place on my life being tied to it.  I took a second in the stall to breathe, pray, think, and, as so often happens when I am alone, have a conversation with myself.

What’s going on here?  I miss New York.  Finally.

How much missing are we talking about?  Well, my breathing’s not so hot, my eyes are soggy, and my heart hurts.

What is it that you miss most?  Friends…people…no, that’s BS.  I miss feeling connected to the most badass city in the country and how good it made me feel about myself.

Do you have validity as a person apart from living in New York (this might have been my psychology major speaking up):  Yes.

Are the most important things about you still going to be true whether you are in an apartment in Manhattan or by a pool in Dunwoody?  Yes.

Are you allowed to miss the city without feeling the need to grieve it hopelessly, knowing that just like your life five years ago was bigger than Alabama, now it’s also bigger than New York?  (…Is that you, God?  Um…YES.)

I gave myself permission to be forever divided, gloriously conflicted, simultaneously homeless and at home.  Then I walked out of the stall and into the bathroom that was bigger than my old apartment.  I took a deep breath, smiled, and headed back to a table full of mediocre tapas and remarkable family.