As I am typing this I am sitting in a camp chair with my feet up on a chair that belongs under the dining room table. I’m in the dining room that has a concrete floor, white concrete walls, two tables with a total of 5 chairs. There are dead weeds in a jar, a yellow teapot full of luke warm coffee, 3 windows – one broken, and two doors. One door leads to the kitchen where the only sounds are coming from. The cooking team, without me, is making biscuits and gravy for dinner. Occasionally people walk through but it’s mostly me and two other people. Kate and Katie are at the table writing or reading. There is little noise outside of my headphones that are very low. This is home.
The kitchen is where I spend most of my days. It has a large stove hooked up to a propane tank. Today, the guys replaced it using tongs as a wrench to get the gas to come out. (they were turning it the wrong way; we’re in the souther hemisphere.) The sink and dishes are sometimes hard to find, the refrigerator doesn’t always work, and our milk doesn’t get refrigerated. If I had a penny for every time I’ve been asked if there is hot water, coffee, tea, roibos, or a clean mug, I’d have enough money to pay for this trip. I’ve helped make 80 sandwiches a day; egg salad, tuna salad or pb&j. I can tell you the food allergies or intolerances of 56 different people. This is home.
I share a room with my team. The walls don’t go to the ceiling so they echo the sound of 30 other girls. I have a top bunk next to the bathroom; it doesn’t always smell good going to sleep. The mattress is only decent and the covers are scratchy. Half my bed functions as a closet or dresser. I haven’t slept straight through the night but twice this month. One of my teammates snores like a chain saw and another girl in the house sounds like a bear – I probably snore too. Doors slam at 6am. Bathroom lights go on all night. People are always talking. A rat lives in the love seat. This is home.
This is home. Jeffreys Bay was home. Home will be Chiaquelane, Mozambique on September 3rd. Home.
I feel like that kid from the song (Temporary Home). Six years old and a little to used to being alone … When people ask me how I like this place, I look up with a smile upon my face, “This is my temporary home. It’s not where I belong, windows and rooms that I’m passing through. This is just a stop on the way to where I’m going. I’m not afraid because I know this my temporary home.”
I’m like a kid who’s getting moved from place to place. I’m just making stops on the way to where I am going and I’m not afraid because I know that home is there.
One day, I’ll get to my home and my father will be waiting in the door way. He may even run out to greet me, but I bet He waits. I bet he stands there and lets me run through the threshold into his arms. He’ll embrace me. He’ll
pick me up and spin me around and say, “Welcome home.” I may never have a permanent home again on this earth. I may not get it until heaven. But, I’m on a journey home.
Unlike that little boy, I’m not doing it alone, though somedays it feels that way. My father is traveling with me. He’s going ahead of me and preparing me a new place to lay my head each month. He’s making sure it’s safe and I’ll have everything I need.
I’m traveling, not traveling the world. I’m not on a grand journey. I’m just going from place to place on my way home.
