Home.
It’s become such a relative term these past eleven months.
From airport terminals to hostel bunks, dirt floors, orphanages, jungles and constructions sites, it seems like the only prerequisite for the label “home” has been that it’s a place to put my bag and there is enough space to curl up for the night.
And while it’s quite possible that this year has turned me into an incurable nomad, I’m genuinely glad to say that in t-9 hours, I will be on a plane headed home.
And this time, it’s the real deal.
Eleven months ago when I hugged my parents goodbye at the airport and set out on this journey, it was nearly impossible to see the finish line. It has been a monthly, weekly, daily process and it’s almost surreal to think that it’s actually coming to an end.
As I sit here on the floor of our hostel in Dublin, I think back to a year ago and try to remember what I expected the end of the Race to look like; who I expected myself to be when it was all said and done. I was sure that all of my kinks would be worked out and all the rough edges would be smoothed over and pretty. And though I’ve grown more this year than in my entire life, I can say with certainty that there is no smooth polish or shiny venire in sight. I’m not the perfect missionary girl. I still have hard days and there’s still work being done in my heart.
But I guess that’s what I’m realizing is the true beauty of the Race – it’s never really over. The work doesn’t end just because my plane lands in America tomorrow instead of India and it doesn’t mean I stop growing. This year has just been just a snapshot of what God is willing do in and through a group of unworthy misfits if they will surrender everything and follow His voice. And this misfit is still listening.
So ready or not – here I come.
After a long journey back, my tattered pillow and dirty feet are finally headed home.
