“Class, today we have a new girl” were the most dreaded words of my childhood. I was the red-faced, chubby girl, cringing before a sea of curious eyes, as the teacher introduced me to my classmates. The first time I heard these words was after our big move from New York to Miami, when I was 7. It was extremely difficult saying goodbye to my little school friends up north, but my parents had become enamored with Miami on our summer vacations.  

My mother taught school in New York, so every summer we headed down to the land of palm trees and mangoes. On our car trips to Miami, I stood in the backseat with my head poking into the front seat, while posing the mournful question: “Are we there yet?” Along the way, we stopped at Howard Johnson’s restaurants, where I always ordered fried clams and French fries, followed by pistachio ice cream. We stayed at motels with words like “cozy” and “comfort” in their names. When my sister and I shared a bed, we drew an imaginary line down the middle and warned each other about crossing it.  

On our summer vacations, the elusive “there” became “here,” as we swam in the sparkling pool at a Miami motel and picnicked on the beach. Flocks of ibis cut through the azure sky, while we flip flopped our way along the shore and sunned ourselves until we were golden brown. We didn’t care about the gritty sand that managed to sneak its way between the slices of cheese and ham in our sandwiches. After all, Miami was truly the promised land, where our lives would become immeasurably better.  

Once my parents decided to leave New York for good, they bought a turquoise, cement-block house in southwest Miami, surrounded by banana, mango, Key lime and coconut trees, plus banks of hot-pink hibiscus. My father happily retired his snow shovel, while my sister and I rejoiced at living near a pool. Sadly, it wasn’t long before a snake slithered into our paradise. My parents started longing to return to New York, so we packed up the house and left. Then about six months later, we were back in Miami.  

By the time I was 12, my family had lived in five different houses, largely because my parents were searching for the perfect place. It seemed that every time we were settled in, a for-sale sign and a moving van would show up again. I envied children whose lives had a stability mine sorely lacked. In Eden, our first parents had fruit trees, birds and beasts, the river and the sky. They yearned for something more, the famous forbidden fruit, and that fatal flaw brought about the fallen world we know so well. 

In my life, the question, “Are we there yet?” captured a restlessness and a search for happiness at the core of my parents’ life. Truth be told, this longing sometimes stalks me as well. Now that I’m alone, I wonder whether I should remain in the house my late husband and I lived in for decades or move back to Florida.  

Then I remember St. Augustine’s words, “You have made us for yourself, oh Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” We are all travelers on a journey in this life with our true home being heaven. Trying to find the kingdom of heaven on earth distracts us from the real goal, which is everlasting life with Christ. He has prepared a perfect place for us, where we will never again be restless. No more for-sale signs and moving vans. And we will finally discover the answer to the question, “Are we there yet?”