One midnight in October, eight friends, some of us groggier than others, piled out of a 12-passenger van and fumbled with poles, tarps, and canvas until two tents stood in the dark woods of Missouri. In the morning, the first few of us to wake began making a fire and cooking breakfast, so that when the rest awoke, there was bacon sizzling over the flames and coffee close to ready.

I learned in those minutes that I could best show hospitality by giving everyone space to contribute in some way rather than commandeering the project myself. I enjoyed strengthening friendships as we prepared the rest of the meal together, laughed at our cooking innovations, panicked when the fire almost sputtered out, and soon enjoyed a meal, all the richer for the occasional ash that had made its way into the eggs. I was unsettled, however, by our temporal concerns, namely, keeping a fire alive in a stiff wind and sleeping in a paper-thin tent that could do next to nothing against a woodland creature or mischievous miscreant.

In my time at Notre Dame, I have pondered the reality of restlessness with the help of Saint Augustine, and lately I have come to feel it more acutely. I came to understand restlessness, or perhaps more accurately, rootlessness, in a different context a few weeks ago at a professor’s house for a class dinner. As I sipped coffee from a beautiful cup and saucer and bit into some rich chocolate cake, I sighed with the relief of being in a home. There was a beautiful set of “great books,” which immediately drew my PLS-minded attention, side by side with a stack of picture books—one among various other signs of small children. The glass of water conveyed by the three-year-old upon my entrance and the little clues of her presence opened a life little-experienced on a college campus. I accepted the hospitality extended toward me and my classmates and enjoyed hours of interesting conversation. I realized on leaving that I hadn’t looked at my phone all evening, something I can so rarely say, and a small smile crossed my face. I left that evening grateful to have rested in the hospitality of a home and refreshed for the week ahead.

In college, it sometimes feels like I’m pitching tents, one after another, enjoying every second, but trying not to notice the restlessness tugging on my heart. There’s a yearning to call some place home, to be rooted in a history that is bigger than myself. When I return home to a family gathering where my uncles stand in flannels around the bonfire, and I hurl snowballs at cousins in an epic battle, and Mimi kisses each of us as we walk in the door, I kind of understand who I am. I belong in this crazy tapestry, and when I am rooted in my family, and more substantially, in God, I learn to love more radically.

At school, I hardly ever fight, I’m rarely upset at other people, and my life is relatively peaceful. I don’t have to do the dishes, bear the annoying habits of a sibling, or accept my parents’ rules. But neither do I go gallivanting through the snow on what was supposed to be a family walk, squeal at a stressful game as playing cards go flying off the table, and recount one baby story after another until the messy dinner table can no longer be ignored. At home, I can be unabashedly silly because I am rooted in my family. Being rooted, however, often makes it difficult to choose charity because it’s not presented to me on my own terms. I’m independent at school and I can plan exactly when I’m going to get reading done, go to the dining hall, or grab coffee, but at home, the schedule doesn’t revolve around me. I have to help my brother with homework, pick up my sister from ski practice, or make dinner—never on my own terms. Loving when it’s inconvenient is practice for sacrificial love, which is the deepest form of love.

I have found that loving in the hiddenness of the family grounds me in my identity and reminds me that I am not rootless, and that I can always rest at home. I think it can be a problem that college initiates such a radical break from family life right before the crucial time that we begin our own adult lives, and yes, our own families. It is a necessary part of growing up (yay—I won’t be living in my parents’ basement!), but we can’t forget what (and more importantly, who) grounds us. We can and should go on adventures with friends, study hard, become more cultured, cheer for Notre Dame football (too soon?), and flourish in many ways. When my strand of the tapestry is rooted in something greater than myself, however, I can reach out to others and build up the communion of saints by creating for others the hospitality of a loving home.

Carolyn Ebner is a junior majoring in PLS and minoring in Constitutional Studies and theology. She is exceedingly excited for snow and always loves discussing restlessness, beauty, chaotic families, and skiing. Please contact her at cebner@nd.edu.