Different Door, Different Me

Do you ever forget who you are when you travel?

I have an unfortunate tendency to be a bit of a chameleon. I'm not saying it's always bad--a lot of times it's just kind of neutral, like I wear my clothes or makeup differently or something--but many times, I just forget everything. I can't remember who I am, who I want to be. I just see what's around me and match it, or I decide it's too much work to be the new person in a new place, so I just default to the old.

This past weekend, I traveled to Philadelphia for my best friend's 30th birthday party (a fun surprise party and nice time, btw, Kell--loooooved seeing you!). I forgot to pray. I forgot all the things I've learned recently by clinging wholeheartedly to my church, and I became this passion-filled, wily thing. And when I say "passion-filled," I don't mean all energetic and concerned. I mean I was filled with all my passions--pride, anger, forgetfulness, selfishness, self-importance, gluttony...I can go all day like that. It's like, if I don't have my routine holding me fast, I don't have anything holding me down.

My husband had been gone for almost a week by the time I left, and during that time, I'd been saying prayers for him. I'd prayed an Orthodox prayer that said at one point, "...keep him from all danger, misfortune, and temptation." The first two sound pretty typical, right? Like, please, God, keep his plane from plummeting to the ground and don't let him get robbed. But temptation? Like, what do you think is going to happen, other than exposure to non-Lenten foods? My husband's a smart man. He's not running off with a prostitute or blowing all our savings at a casino.

But yeah. I get it now. Now I've come home struggling to even remember to pray. When I left, I ran to it as if I couldn't wait. I hate that.

It'll get better, I know. Fall and get back up. But I've come to realize how heavily I've come to rely upon my home. My early mornings, my drop-offs and pick-ups, my time alone when the kids nap. I rely upon the clothes in my wardrobe, for heavens' sake, and my bed and my brand of toilet paper and my Ivory soap and my safety doorknobs that hurt my hands when I open them. I mean, home sweet home, sure. But shouldn't I grow to a point that I'm the same person, whether I'm opening and closing my own safety doorknobs or someone else's?

I should. I should, indeed.