A month ago, we received an email containing our flight information for returning home. Opening the email flooded me with about as many emotions as getting accepted to the Race did. I was immediately thrilled, nervous, excited, afraid, ready, and filled with dread.
Thinking about going home is something we have conditioned ourselves to not really think about, in attempts to stay as present as possible right where we are. But with it approaching so quickly, making plans is an inevitable task. Find somewhere to live when I get home: check. Get a vehicle: working on it. Get a job: check! (I’ve accepted a position, pending background check and paperwork, in the NICU at Memorial in Gulfport!) The practical things are falling into place. Then come the things I’ve learned here that I want to implement at home. Find a way to incorporate feedback into my relationships: ehhh…we’ll see. Find community similar to what I have with my team: seems impossible. Be prepared to be fully present at home: not sure I’ll ever master that.
The Race is such an interesting experience. At the start, it was hard for me to not think of home. My bed, my own space, toilets that allowed me to flush my toilet paper, air conditioning, food I could pronounce the name of…now it’s hard for me to imagine life with those things. It’s hard to wrap my mind around what it’ll be like to walk to the kitchen without 15 kids calling my name on the way and running up to hug me. What will it be like to sit down and have a meal alone without 6 other people to share with? A hot shower that I don’t have to carry all of my belongings to each time seems foreign and a bed without a mosquito net seems ridiculous. Sometimes good water pressure makes me cry tears of thankfulness, measuring cups in the kitchen calls for team celebration, and KFC is where we have gourmet team dinners.
Last month, a couple of days after the email about our flight home, my team and I had a team time where we sat and wrote out our fears about going home, read them aloud to one another, and then spent some time praying declarations over them. When we began I didn’t think I’d have too much to write down. After all, home is the “norm,” right? But once I started writing, I quickly found myself filling the pages.
- That I won’t have the answers for people when they ask me to tell them about the past year.
- That people won’t ask or care about what happened in the last year.
- That I will fall back into old habits and behaviors.
- That I’ll forget to be loving and grace-filled to those who don’t understand me or what I’ve gone through.
- That I won’t be able to find a job quickly. (Praise the Lord for providing once I turned that fear over to Him!)
- That I’ll be a burden to others.
- That I’ll be dissatisfied, unhappy, and forget to embrace and find Jesus in the mundane.
- That I won’t be able to build community.
- That I’ll battle loneliness and feeling isolated.
- That I’ll have to grieve alone the loss of Tina, my grandaddy, and Ronnie because everyone else has already come to terms with those realities.
- That I’ll forget what I’ve learned here.
- That I’ll miss my squad and team so fiercely that I’ll forget to embrace the people around me.
- That I’ll forget the people and faces that have changed my life.
- That the Race will be the peak of my life and relationship with Jesus.
- That people won’t like who I’ve become.
The list goes on. They may seem irrational to some, but they’re so very real to me. America terrifies me. It used to be where my heart lied, and to an extent, it still is. But now I also have pieces in 11 other countries. I wonder how I’ll lay my head down at night without weeping for Miriam, the precious little girl I adore in Thailand, who lives in the orphanage I worked at. Or Chilu, the 10 month old orphan I’ve rocked to sleep on my chest multiple times already this month here in Zambia. Or Francis, the 4 day old I held and my heart broke over in the Philippines, who was found abandoned on the steps of St. Francis Catholic Church, which is how he got his name. How am I supposed to meet friends for dinner and have conversations about the latest south Mississippi gossip without my mind drifting off to Guillermo, the old man in Costa Rica, who feared no one would visit him after we left. And how will I not yearn to be back at Burke’s Paradise in Zimbabwe with Vicki, Adam, Juliet and their family with whom I shared intense Holy Spirit encounters and incredible worship and prayer?
And what about my teammates? 4 of them I’ve lived with for the last 7 months. We eat together, share bedrooms, clothes, triumphs, and defeats, worship together, fight together, annoy one another, and love each other like I’ve never experienced. They’ve become my family. I’m supposed to just say goodbye to them and move on?
They say home is where the heart is, but mine is scattered across the globe.
Please don’t take this wrong. I am so excited to come home, reunite with my family and friends, and start back work doing what I’m passionate about. But please also understand that it’s going to be hard for me. I’ve seen and experienced things I never thought possible, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. Ask me about the people, the places, the cultures. Let’s get coffee, lunch, dinner, sit on the beach, whatever, and talk about these things. And know that I want to hear about the year of your life I’ve missed out on, too!
I fly into New Orleans the morning of July 26th and will spend some time with my family before making our way back over to the coast. I would love to see you, talk with you, hug your neck! I miss you all so much and I can’t believe this journey is coming to an end! Thank you all so much for your continued support and prayers. Please continue to pray that my squad mates and I make the best of the last 2 months we have left on the field, and that we can both celebrate and mourn the end of this properly. See you in 54 days, America!
