As I sat down to write this blog I asked my mom if I could turn up the air conditioning. “You’re cold?” My mom said – perplexed. “Yeah…I lived without air conditioning for six months. I’m not used to it.” Alas, I’ve been in the States for two weeks now, and I’m still adjusting to the culture. Yesterday I went out to lunch with my brother, and after we paid for our meal I walked away from the table. “What, no tip?” He asked – perplexed. “Oh…I forgot about tipping. They don’t usually do it in other countries.”
Since I’ve been home I’ve found myself tossing and turning at night as I wonder how it’s possible for the impoverished widow I met in Africa to exist in her conditions at the same time I’m existing in mine. I squeeze my eyes shut as I try to imagine her – it all seems so far away and unreal. And yet it haunts me. I try to imagine the Bishop in Kenya – he has little money, but big dreams. And a big heart. What is he doing right now? Does he know that he’s impacted my life forever? I think of the orphanage in the Philippines, and I try to imagine holding one-month-old Hannalia – though really she is going on three or four months now. Everything in my mind is a blur, and sometimes I can’t even think back to the first half of my trip. It was so long ago.
I’ve only been home for two days, and I can tell it’s been a while because my baby brother is now taller than me. Also he has a man voice. Also I guess he’s not a baby anymore – in fact he’s nearly fourteen. When did that happen?
It’s been a while, but at the same time it feels like no time has passed. There’s a familiar rhythm that life on Vicksburg Lane encompasses. I went for a jog around my neighborhood yesterday morning, and for a moment I wondered if it was really the summer of 2007, when I often went for runs around the ‘hood.
I never thought I would want to come back to Ohio. I fled the state in 2008 and have rarely been back since. But this time I’m going to stay for a while, and I’m actually looking forward to it. I guess what they say is true, that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I think I’ve developed a crush on Ohio – the hot summers and breathtaking autumns, the leisurely pace of life and the quirky characteristics. That been said, I’m not going to stay forever. Just during this time of transition.
One of the reasons I wanted to come back was to spend time with my family. Like any normal American family, we’ve had our faire share of dysfunctions. Now that I’ve been on this crazy trip around the world and have been transformed by the grace of God, I was hoping that I could respond to our family dysfunctions differently. More peacefully, perhaps.
I had my first test last night – not even 48 hours after returning home. My mom and I got into in a disagreement concerning some sensitive family issues. Be calm, I told myself. Be loving. Be Christ. I lasted for a few minutes, and then I found myself yelling and storming off. I threw myself on my sister’s bed and felt the tears roll down my cheeks.
I haven’t been able to cry since the doctor forced metal objects up my nose last month. I’ve often felt like crying since then – countless times even. But the tears were trapped inside of me. A few times I attempted to make myself cry, you know, by thinking of something really sad and then making crying noises. It never worked. I hoped the first time I would cry would be because of something relating to the World Race – because I missed people or was so moved by my experience or something. Leave it to old family wounds to release my tears.
As I was on my sister’s bed I thought about how I was a failure – about how I could so easily love the widow in Africa but be so resistant to loving my own mother. I thought about how I could fully believe that God could raise someone from the dead, but how I had no faith that God could redeem my family. I thought about how worried I had been that when I came home I would become the worst version of myself, and how my biggest fear came true.
I opened my diary and became confessing my sins to God. And then, for the first time since coming back to the States, I heard him speak. “Keep trying,” he said to me, “even if it’s small.” I thought about how I couldn’t say I was sorry to my mother, but how I had cleaned the kitchen for her. “I’m proud of you,” he said. I guess I’m not a complete failure, I thought. “Don’t think of yourself less than I do. You are not a failure – it’s not over, so you have not failed. Don’t be sad – there is victory!”
I took great leaps on the World Race, and by the end of the eleven months I had changed a lot. I guess I hoped that everything would be better when I came home – that the giant leaps I took on the race would automatically transfer over to my life at home. But no, that’s not going to happen, and in that way I think I’ve experienced my greatest culture shock. Instead I must take small steps. I will fall down and crumble, like I did last night, but I have to remember to keep trying…to not view my downfalls as the end all. To know that it is Christ in me – and he does not disappoint.
So yeah. This is where I am two weeks after the race, and two days after being home.
I have a couple more blogs I want to post on here – blogs I started and intended to publish before the end of the race, but never got around to. And then I’ll be starting a new blog – big whoop.
Until next time…
