It came yesterday.
I’ve been waiting for it because I knew it was inevitably coming.
And yesterday, it came knocking on my door.
More like knocking it down and barging in, actually.
Part of me wants to go Bon Qui Qui on it and be all
“Don’t interrupt! RUUUDE!”
But I knew it was coming.
The inexplicable -yet very familiar- feeling of needing to get away.
I’ve been home for just over two weeks and it has been awesome.
I’ve loved hanging out with people, hearing about their year and laughing over memories from before the race.
I’ve loved being with my family and just laying in bed all day because I can.
But then this feeling came slamming through my contentment yesterday.
And I remembered.
I remembered the way my heart would burst out of my chest whenever baby Michael would smile for only me.
I remembered the way Pat would look down at the bar as she told me how much she missed her little boy, and how much she hated being used by men every night.
I remembered the woman we prayed healing over in Mozambique who had to remain seated in an awkward position so that she could breathe, and even then, it was only in slow, ragged breaths.
I remembered all of these stories, all of these people from across the globe who changed me.
And I don’t know how to tell people about them, because no one really wants to know.
Which is fine, seeing as I know they couldn’t begin to understand the things I’ve lived through this past year, and I don’t expect them to.
It’s just… strange.
Being home.
Sometimes it feels like the last year of my life didn’t even happen.
Aside from the stamps in my passport and the cut on my foot that I got from a rock on Pangkor Island, I would say that it was all just a dream.
I guess it’s all part of the process.
But I know that when God does call me out to the field again, which I’m sure will be sooner than later, I know that I will be ready.
Heck, if I had my way,
I’d be on a plane to Africa like yesterday.
