Fam

I remember walking out of the testing center on the brink of tears. I had just seen the result of the exam I had taken, and it was much, much lower than expected. I walked home in a daze. I had never failed a test and I didn’t know what to do, or who to call to talk me through it. I found myself numbly dialing my home phone number and putting the phone to my ear.

“Hi Mom,” I said into the receiver upon her answering. There was a slight pause on the other end, and then “What’s wrong, Kyanna?”

I think I lost it then. I cried to my mother and told her all about my failed test and how I was going to fail the class, and then lose my scholarships, and then drop out of college. My mom listened to it all: every sob and every exaggerated consequence I could think of. Once I cleared the tears, my sweet mother talked me through it, and then she ended by saying that I could always turn to her for any of my problems. I think I cried again upon hanging up with her, because for some reason I knew that my mother would be my rock for many more years to come; I knew that she had more pressing problems than a failed test that she was struggling through; I knew that she cared more than I could imagine.

Now, I am just like most college students who live away from home. I live in my apartment, a hundred miles away from my home. I live with different people, and honestly, I don’t visit my family very often. My first few semesters I didn’t visit or call home as much as I should have. I told myself that I loved my family from afar. Even when I was in Russia, a thousand miles away from the people who I loved, I convinced myself that I was properly showing my appreciation for my family, my parents especially, when I skyped occasionally, or sent a message so they wouldn’t worry.

I wish I knew now how terrible I was being. I wish I knew that I could have called my mom to tell her about my day instead of just calling her when I was trying to bake, or when I didn’t know how to properly clean something. I wish I knew that my father wanted to know about my life, and I wish I would have called him and told him about the new boy I was dating or a class I was taking, instead of just calling him to ask a gospel question or a car question.

This Fall I found myself in a very similar situation as being at college or in Russia. I was a thousand miles from home again, and I was sending my family messages so they wouldn’t worry. But also, I was sending them messages so my parents knew that I loved and appreciated them, so my little sister believed me when I told her that she was my favorite, so my family knew that I really did love them. And I was sending messages because, although I lived in a sunny warm place where I ate tacos and hung out with cute kids every day, every part of me ached to be home.

To be home sleeping on our leaf printed couch.

To be home talking my mother’s ear off daily.

To be home playing Smash Bros with my brothers.

To be home laughing with my sisters.

To be home being teased by my father.

To be home, just to be home.

The cool thing about family is that they are always there for you, and I finally had a wake-up call to remind me to love them while they were here, no matter how far away they are. And as I prepare to load back up and make the drive home for the weekend for the third time this semester, I can’t help but find myself incredibly happy to just be home with the people I once took for granted.

Song recommendation: "Rich Kids" by Judah and the Lion