I don’t know why I thought this. It seems silly now to even put it on paper. For some reason I thought that by the time I hit the field I’d be whole, healed, and ready for ministry.
My bag’s packed but my Spanish still stinks. My arm’s still enflamed with tendonitis and there’s still a mysterious piece of skin on my nose affectionately referred to as my “not booger.”
I’m still me. The things that make me laugh, make me sensitive, make me hurl all still affect me. I still crave cheese, would rather reach for a book than my Bible, and still am addicted to social media.
I’m still hesitant, still wounded, still Katie.
Except now I’m me in Puerto Rico. Me living out of a pack I can barely lift. Me striving to serve along side sisters who were complete strangers four months ago.
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