By Effie Caldarola | Catholic News Service

You know you're boarding a flight to Alaska when one attractive, well-dressed woman in line ahead of you says to another, "I love your Sorels."

In case your familiarity with that brand extends only to their stylish sandals, that's not the kind of Sorels this lady was referencing. No, these were the original waterproof boots for which the brand, with its polar bear logo, became famous.

These are boots that come in handy during "break-up," the spring season in Alaska when voluminous mounds of snow melt and some of the state is a muddy pool. Then, Sorels are advisable -- and acceptable -- with your dress-for-success suits.

Another overheard-on-the-airplane indicator of our destination: the conversation in the row behind us. "We just have so many bears around our cabin," lamented the woman to her friend, adding "Fortunately, our dog has only been chased once." Ah, Alaska.

My husband and I were heading for a break-up visit to Alaska, where we had lived for over 30 years and raised three kids.

The 49th state is often misunderstood. Those maps that show a tiny little Alaska in the left hand corner above the U.S. are an irritant to many in my former home. If they put Alaska in its actual size atop a map of the "Lower 48," the Aleutian chain would spread down to Baja, California. Southeast Alaska, where the state capital is located, veers off toward Florida. 

Alaska is one-fifth the size of the contiguous U.S. When we first moved there, it had four time zones (now consolidated to one) and its many weather systems make a mockery of anyone who asks the simplistic question, "What's the weather like in Alaska?"

We moved away from Alaska in 2011. At the time, an old friend who had moved from Fairbanks to Washington told me that in the beginning, "wave after wave of loneliness would wash over me." I found her remark fit my mood perfectly then. When I thought of "home," I continued to think of the streets of Oceanview, my neighborhood in South Anchorage, and the memory would cause a tightening in my chest.

Our visit was great, with lots of time with our son, who still lives there, and many coffees, lunches and dinners with old friends. But, for me, one aspect was the healthy realization that I had finally, emotionally, moved on.

Sometimes, it's good to reflect on the people and places that have influenced us. On my closet door, I still have the simple wooden cross that I was given as a Jesuit volunteer who taught school in the Alaskan bush. It's what first brought me, rather reluctantly, to the place where I would spent so much of my life.

In the wonderful prayer book, "Hearts on Fire, Praying with Jesuits," there's a prayer by Jesuit Father John Morris, usually called "Father Jack." He was instrumental in founding the original Jesuit Volunteer Corps.

He asks God to "bless every person I have met, every face I have seen, every voice I have heard, especially those most dear."

He goes on to ask God's blessing on every city, town and street he has known, on the sights, sounds and objects he's encountered.

"In some mysterious way these have all fashioned my life; all that I am."

A trip back, whether in memory or in person, to a place that held deep significance can be a blessed event, a pilgrimage of sorts. It helps me recall the faces of those who touched me along the way, challenged me, led me in faith or, by their example, guided me.