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This summer's travel adventures have been so wonderful, I'd almost forgotten what it feels like to come home. Arriving at my friend Marti's home in Santa Barbara this week has been a homecoming that I didn't expect and didn't realize that I craved.

Coming home from Guatemala was arriving at the home of my brother Richard and sister-in-law Dianne. Their quiet and spacious house, the backyard with the pool and the flow of children and grandchildren, good meals, and lots of good conversation was a lovely respite from my conflicted feelings about being in Guatemala and the hard work of being submerged in another language. As I prepared to leave I found myself entertaining thoughts of finding a way to make a home in Texas, close enough to continue being part of Richard and Dianne's daily routine.

I took a few days before continuing westward to drive up to Tulsa Oklahoma for a short visit with Grace Hanlon, who had been my mother's dearest friend. Grace's husband Horace died unexpectedly in the year between the deaths of my own parents. Grace has always been one of my favorite people, and with the death of my mother, Horace's death and then the deth of my father, she and I had almost lost contact completely. We had a wonderful visit in which we talked about those loved ones we had lost. Old memories and new stories to share about how life had been and how life has continued has begun to establish a new connection between Grace and I that feels like its own homecoming. It was soon after I left Grace that I remembered how hard I had worked in the years after my divorce to get in touch with people from my single life with whom I had lost touch in the years of marriage and chile-rearing. Maybe my summer of travel to old friends and new was a similar journey to reground life as a post-graduate with new vocation in the life I enjoyed before turning this page. Thank you Grace, for sharing such poignant stories with me and helping to knit the old and new together in such a lovely way.

After escaping Oklahoma, I was able to find the last available hotel room in the center of Santa Fe during the busiest weekend of the summer season. I treated myself to a ritzy stay at the Hotel St Francis, with dinner at their sidewalk bar, a plush bed and room service breakfast. It was the Indian Art Market weekend and so crowded that I left right after a quick tour of the Georgia O'Keefe Museum, heading for a private hot tub at Ten Thousand Waves before driving to Taos. I think Taos is more my style than Santa Fe. Certainly the smaller, more personal galleries intrigued me more and I found some beautiful jewely -- another indulgence -- and a sweet room at the Taos Inn. No more Comfort Inns or Super 8 Motels on this leg of the journey. There is so much beautiful handmade art on the road from Santa Fe to Taos, that I promised myself to return when the day comes that I am furnishing a home. This trip turned out to be about personal decoration, as I detoured through the back country to the Zuni Pueblo and bought several sets of inlaid pendants and earrings. What a beautiful day, complete with a further detour through the Petrified Forest National Park and a night in Sedona. It was the perfect end of a scenic day, watching the sun set on the red rocks, sitting on my motel balcony with a cold glass of white wine in hand.

A week in the Phoenix area with my sister, Pat was an opportunity to catch up with another part of the family, swap stories and share memories. Pat is a gifted and dedicated photographer, and we took an overnight trip to Prescott Arizona to photgraph "the dells", a spectacular outcropping of rocks gathered around a lovely lake. We got some great pictures, and it was fun to compare my efforts with hers. I was hoping to use the trip to Prescott to look up Mary Fenton, an Arizona friend. The last address I had for her was in Prescott, but between her cross-country moves, and my moves to school and internship, we had lost touch. Pat and I arrived in Prescott at the beginning of a violent rainstorm that made outdoor photography out of the question. We wandered across the street to the Christian Bookstore Pat wanted to visit. As we walked in, the woman behind the counter said, "Is that Barb?" It was Mary Fenton! We had a chance to catch up and shake our heads more than once about how people reappear in your life. What a lovely blessing.

It was wonderful to be with Pat and to meet some of her friends, but after a week, I was ready to move on. The heat in Phoenix was intense, and it was beginning to wear me out. I dreaded the drive to Santa Barbara, remembering the stretch between Phoenix and Blythe and Blythe and Palm Springs as being the most boring drive in the universe. I guess a summer of driving for leisure has changed my attitude, as the trip was comfortable, pleasant and uneventful. Arriving at Marti's house was like coming home. I always loved driving into Santa Barbara and I loved living there. It is beautiful between the mountains and the sea, and has a peaceful pace that always makes me feel welcome and calm.

The remodel of Marti's house is almost done, and her home is a beatiful embodiment of her welcoming and generous spirit. The garden is finally finished, and now it is not only comfortable to settle inside, there are also comfy places outside to settle to work or read or dream. This feels like the perfect place to end the summer's journey and turn my face toward the future.

What that future will hold is still an open question, as I have not heard from a congregation that wants me as their pastor yet. There will be conversations over the next few weeks about what other possibilities there might be. I feel blessed to have this place to rest and regroup while I open to possibility, awaiting the movement of the Spirit leading me toward the next journey.