At the risk of being the last one to “leave the party,” I wanted to offer some final reflections on the magical journey we were privileged to take. Two weeks ago, many of us landed in Cleveland on an evening flight from Philadelphia. There were some dramatic moments over Lake Erie, as we hit wind shear and rain, but the touchdown was mercifully smooth.

We said our farewells clustered around the baggage claim area, relieved to see suitcases which had survived a crushing check-in process and a flight delay at Heathrow 18 hours earlier. The length of this day seemed unfathomable.

Some of us were missing choristers and family members who were not with us as we came home, those who had extended their time in England (and even to France). But we headed to our cars or shuttles to seek a bed and a morning shower to wash away the clammy residue of an international, multi-hour flight.

I surveyed my body and couldn’t decide whether I most needed food, water, or the airport hotel room we had booked for a respite before our drive home to Dayton the next day. In this state of travel trauma, many of us, including me, simply tumbled into bed.

As the fog of readjustment has lifted over these past two weeks, the sheer wonder of this experience has become ever more apparent to me. I find myself thinking of the sweet evening air, as we strolled up the walk and out of the Cathedral Close after the final Evensong.

I recall the laughter and animated conversation at the farewell dinner, the special electricity that occurs when a group has had a rich experience together and is on the verge of its ending.

And I remember the heartfelt speeches in the hotel garden after the dinner, as many people sought to sum up, in these last precious moments, what this experience had meant to them.

The “if-you’re-on-time-you’re-late” choir showed up well before the 7 a.m departure time for our bus to Heathrow. It felt like the end of a grand Christmas visit, the bustle and noise, the handshakes and hugs, as we said farewell to those who were staying longer.

The friendly White Hart Hotel staff smiled serenely behind the check-in desk, next to the glass tank of lemon infused water, acting as if this early morning American hubbub was typical in a British hotel. We picked up our boxed breakfasts, which the staff had thoughtfully provided for us, and made for the coach.

John, our friendly driver, skillfully negotiated thick traffic and narrow roads, just as he had all week. He delivered us to the curb outside our Heathrow terminal over three hours ahead of our boarding time.

The American Airlines check-in area was already awash with travelers, and the bag check kiosks were not working for many of us. A patient wait with surprisingly good-natured travelers led us at last to a central waiting plaza, rife with eating and duty-free spending opportunities. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

And wait we did, as we learned that there was a mechanical issue on our airplane which needed repair. An airline representative assured us they could fix it, but there would be a substantial delay. While I was walking out of the boarding area to stretch my legs, I saw some members of our group passing the time, playing an intense card game on top of a suitcase. I admired their spirit.

Because our flight to Philadelphia was two hours late, making our connection in Philadelphia was somewhat in doubt, especially as we would be obliged to go through Passport Control, Customs and Immigration, retrieve and recheck our bags, and get through security again. This was doubly daunting because of passing through five time zones en route home to the U.S. The clock in Philly said it was 6 p.m., but our bodies were definitely feeling like it was time for bed.

The lines mostly proved to be mercifully short. We jumped all the hurdles, grabbed the shuttle bus to another terminal, and even had time to grab a bite of…Dinner? Breakfast? Lunch? Who could tell?…before boarding the flight to Cleveland.

I know people take transcontinental flights all the time, skip time zones, and endure the hardship of cramped airplane seats, long waits, uncertain meals, and anxious sprints through crowded airports.

It simply comes with the experience of international travel, a necessary sacrifice for a greater good. Still, no one should underestimate the strain on the body and the mysterious bouts of fatigue and numbness which beset us after we come home. When the post-trip recovery is mostly done, then it’s the time to lean back into all the memories and allow them to move us once more.

What made you laugh? What brought tears to your eyes? When were you surprised or humbled? And what made you feel so joyfully alive you could have knelt down and kissed the ground?

These experiences are what makes a mere trip a holy pilgrimage: all those moments for you, whatever they might be, when you could say with Jacob, the traveler, Surely, the Lord is in this place; and I never knew it. (Gen. 28:16)

Greg+