Alright, you knew it was coming. If you know me you can only expect this to happen. You probably predicted it by the hundreds of photos on Facebook, or by the number of soapstone statues I brought home. When I bought the Sabra hummus that doesn't seem to taste as good anymore, you probably figured it out. When I insisted on wearing a scarf in May and my new Aladdin pants in front of my new coworkers, you got the message. I miss Zimbabwe, and I miss the West Bank.
This always happens. When I was in youth, I would miss mission trip. And then it was Glen Lake, and then it was Birchwood, and then McMurry, and now this. I don't think I understand. So many nights I've cried myself to sleep wishing I was back in Alaska, or shaking in excitement for the next mission trip. Now I daydream about what it would be like going to Africa University or living in the West Bank-which is almost ridiculous. I just got back a week ago, I'm not even done processing yet! I guess this is part of it....
As of now, I'm in Glen Rose for the next 2.5 months or so, and I only know two options. The first is to continue to live in this state of constantly longing to go back. A state where I weep and laugh at memories, where the people of Africa and the West Bank are close to my heart, and I think about it all the time. This option scares me. I don't think my heart can handle it all. My heart aches just thinking about it.
My second option is to recognize I'm not there anymore, and to try to live life in Glen Rose/Abilene. I know this doesn't work, that the experiences I had on this trip cut far too deep into my soul to be able to compartmentalize them. However, I'm scared this is what I will try to do, that I'll act how I did before because it sounds easier than truly missing these places.
People always say "my heart is in _____" or "my heart beats in _____." I get what they're saying. My heart beats in Vivian, in Shertz, in Gonzales, in El Paso, in Mrs. Reed's classroom, in Alaska, in Bethlehem and Jerulsalem, in Mutare, in Abilene, at Glen Lake. But my heart also beats in my chest. I carry these things with me. And while I'm still figuring out what to do with and how to make sense of all these feelings, I do know I am thankful I have them. Even when all I can do is cry, it reminds me I am connected to my friends across the world.
As our driver dropped us off at the Harare Airport he shook my hand and said "Don't forget us." And as we drove out of Bethlehem and passed the separation wall I remember reading "Don't forget the struggle." It is my prayer that I never forget my brothers and sisters. I pray that I never forget or become immune to people who are suffering just because I can't see them. And maybe-somewhat ironically, I pray God gives me peace in knowing that this uneasy feeling and tension will probably never go away.
