[Originally published on Shalomsick Notes on June 25, 2024]

I am a nomadic homebody.

Though nomadic and homebody may seem to oppose one another on the surface, I believe both ways of being and feeling are connected to a deeper longing for home. Maybe you know this dual way of feeling and being too.

Nomadic homebodies are shalomsick souls. We wander and we settle in because we hope and because we ache. We live awake to the tension of both.

And even though we can only be in one place at a time, some places stay with us long after we’ve left - changing us and reminding us of new ways to see and be, no matter how long it’s been since we were there.

Freiburg is one of those places for me.

What places have stayed with you?

I’ve said goodbye to Freiburg so many times.

I knew nothing of this city until I was a sophomore in college. I still remember what that first weeklong trip over spring break felt like: it was cold and it filled me with wonder. And after that week, I added another the next year, and another the year after that. Eventually it became whole year packed into one huge suitcase-a first job and a first move overseas as an adult. And then I stayed another year and left with the hope to come back forever. But life, and marriage, and twists and turns, led me to believe I wasn’t meant to go back. And then almost five years later, we moved as a young couple after trying to move elsewhere. And this city became home again for a little while. This city is where Matt and I found out we were expecting our first child.

It was something to go back this year and hear that firstborn kid walking in the same places we walked when we first imagined him.

It was something to see how much has remained the same, while also noticing how much has changed. There are so many more Asian grocery stores in the city-and even a few specifically Korean places. There are even ramen vending machines in the train station. If you’ve read my book, and in particular, the chapter on living in Freiburg, you’ll know why this is so significant.

It was something to meet with my friend Carmen and talk about the things we remembered from meeting together for two years, over twenty years ago. And it was something to go back to the church we attended and sing worship songs in German again.

It was something to go to our favorite yufka kebab place and find the same menu (plus a new BBQ yufka kebab) and the same family running it all, just older (like us). I wanted to ask the mom what the last five years were like for her, but it was busy and the long line had to keep moving. All I could do was smile as she asked, “Mit scharf?”

Ja, mit scharf, bitte.

I’ll always love this university city though it’s never been mine to keep. 

On our last day in the city, I walked a few of the streets and alleyways I love. I practiced Rememorari Divina, thanked God for what this place means to me and for the chance and privilege to be back as a family, and said goodbye again.

Tasha Jun is a Korean American melancholy dreamer, wife, and mom, who grew up in a multicultural and biracial home. She writes with an ache in liminal space, and writing has always been what's led her towards the hope of shalom. She is the author of Tell Me The Dream Again.