He's Home

There's a shoebox under my bed back home. Inside you will find scraps of sentimental representations of a boy and girl. There's pictures and old gifts that lie inside along with letters postmarked between two countries. The box is tied with a ribbon of teenage love and in black marker, Jon's name is scribbled.

Two weeks ago we celebrated the year mark of Jon's return from his mission. That little box made an appearance in my mind and I mentally thumbed through the contents. Our letters were not epic love poems by any means. In fact they were far from them. I smiled at the words that were found inside those eagerly ripped envelopes. Because even though words were exchanged that sounded a little like this:

Dear Kelsey,
I actually mean Dear Jane.
Love, Jon

Reply:

Dear Jon,
This is a real dear Jon.
Love, Kelsey

And just because I may have made a subconcious rekindling attempt that looked like that (2 weeks before he got home):
Dear Jon,
I was just in Europe and couldn't help but think that we were in the closest physical proximity to eachother that we've been in two whole years. I'm really excited for you to come home.
Love, Kelsey

And got the funny and endearing response of this:
Dear Kelsey,
I have to say that I'm utterly confused as to how you feel about me...Well I guess we will just have to see when I come home.
Love, Jon

We still ended up looking like this six or so months later:

I'm so thankful that a year ago that confused boy came home from his mission. I'm so thankful that we could forget about the janes and the dears. I'm thankful that we replaced rekindling attempts with successes and chased away all that confusion. I'm thankful for the man that he became and the experiences we've had. Lastly, I'm thankful for the shoebox that holds the beautiful mess of lined paper that tells the story of us.

My boy is home.