Coming Back

A stranger for a time to the traditions and habits of my faith, I crawl back on tender knees and ask my Father if He has minded too terribly that I took a Sabbatical from the trappings of a world that had grown too narrow, too dusty, and too cramped for my bursting lungs. The only guilt I have is from the echos of mortals I can't seem to emulate in their self-flagellation, their view from the bottom. 

He seemed to say, "We've been here all along. But then, for that matter there's nowhere that we aren't. You haven't gone so far after all. Glad you got some air."

Does anyone understand this?