Estancia.

I don't usually remember such small details, but Estancia was the name of the wine he ordered on the first date, and he recommended it to me. He was dazzling and handsome, with a bright smile. He had a real job that made real money, and he drove a nice car and had his own place. He was faithful and involved in his church community, and he was supportive of my calling in ministry as well. He asked deep questions about life, and we had great conversations. Waiting after work, surrounded by tall silver buildings downtown, in my cute silver shoes, the wind swirling around me until I was practically dizzy, I watched for him to pick me up in his shiny silver car. I thought that made me matter, even though I had a suspiciion that there might be more to me than merely my identity as "girlfriend."

He was refreshingly down-to-earth, with a great sense of humor, but I idolized him and put him So High Above Me. I could never measure up to Mr. So High Above Me: he and his friends were too interesting, too smart, too successful. I tried desperately to make myself good enough, to earn his affection, and I found myself doing weird domestic crap. He took a nap one afternoon, and as he slept, I cleaned his entire bathroom. Disgusting, in so many ways that have nothing to do with the bits of beard trimmings and soap scum.

Mr. So High Above Me possessed himself in a way that I admired greatly, but my insecurity despised him for it. I still trusted his wisdom, and I knew he wanted to take care of me. In a crucial moment of decision in my life, his was the voice that spoke truth to me when he saw me in the depths of discontent and asked, "Why are you doing this to yourself?" I didn't have a good answer, but that question was the one that pointed me home. The relationship was broken soon after that, but something in me at the time let me know that I was in the process of becoming more whole. And I took my first steps on the road home.

A month later, my host mother in Mexico was expressing her gratitude to my roommate and me for the friendship we'd shared in her home during the weeks of our stay, which was beautiful. I didn't understand everything she said, but I heard the word estancia, and I remembered that sweet wine. Turns out, the word means "stay," as in, a safe place to stay on a journey. Her home had been a safe place for me, and as my eyes grew teary, I thanked God for the temporary safe place I'd been granted with that former boyfriend, that man with a beautiful heart, something like Moses who led me through the wilderness to my own Promised Land, but couldn't go there with me.

Last weekend I enjoyed a lovely evening and an exquisite dinner at a restaurant called Estancia, with friends new and old. That word doesn't pain me like it used to; now it makes me smile. For a while, I thought an estancia, a safe place to stay, was my only hope at being safe on the perceived perilous journey home. These days, however, home comes with me wherever I go, and the journey itself, like fine wine, is something to be savored along the way.