I am home. My father found me at the Dayton airport, and he didn’t seem at all surprised when I introduced him to an elderly couple I met from Peru who spoke only Spanish. He wasn’t phased when I explained their emergency and how they needed his cell phone. He didn’t even wonder why I had a kazoo in my mouth or smelled like Dunkin’ Donuts and Febreze. I could tell the only thing on his mind was letting me know how much he loved me.
I am home. I walked into my room and hardly recognized it, not because I’ve become so accustomed to the Third World, but because my mother had taken pictures from various blogs, printed them out, and beautifully framed them across my walls. And my bed was made.
I am home. Tears swelled up in my eyes as I praised God in an American church for the first time in a year. In the middle of the sermon, the pastor recognized me in the back and stopped everything to have the church welcome me home. In fact, this blog is perhaps a bit late… I have randomly shown up to a few places and freaked out people who hadn’t been expecting me.
But I am home, and I am praying, and I am listening, and I am waiting. More to come…
