Sometimes my life feels like a movie. Only in a movie, you know there will be some sort of resolution, and you know to expect it within two or three hours. I haven't read the script. The cameras just keep rolling.

This morning I woke up in a strange, unfamiliar town that is now my home. My sense of adventure kicked in, but this city, with its tree-lined roads and blue university road signs, was not in the mood to lay out a welcome mat. Thunder voiced its hostility. I ate lunch in my hotel room, staring at the ridiculous blue-yellow-orange geometric patterns on the runner attempting to brighten up the bed. I thought about being over 400 miles from anyone who knows me.

I still have no home, but this afternoon a familiar face, a cup of tea, and stained glass rewrote the script. And later, the comforting taste of McAlister's honey mustard.