Author note: This is one of those posts that’s needed to be written for quite some time, but the flow and correlation of the following could be a bit chaotic. You’ve been warned; good luck.
It has been three years since I was in Europe. To the date. I wish I could explain to you the feelings that overwhelmed me the moment I stepped foot in Romania. The memories that rushed back from my time in Italy, the nervous chatter and excitement for the unknown cold adventures to be had. The tantalizing pastries (yes, even the ones in vending machines with colorful packaging), the stylish haircuts and the need for scarves and socks (two pairs, even! Such a foreign concept after seven months of bare feet).
I have loved it. But I have struggled. Even as I write, my heart threatens to jump out of my chest and splatter itself onto this white page. But I suppose that’s what my words are doing anyway, in a more black and white fashion.
You see, bruises aren’t attractive. Yet somehow I seem to inflict them upon myself because I think it’s necessary. I beat myself up over the silliest of things, then run to people for the band aids to cover them up. Hoping that by talking about it, by waving my hands and jumping up and down in the snow saying, “Hi, I’m Sarah, and my anxiety is through the roof!” people will run from every direction and give me a plethora of options for band aids. Hello Kitty, Spiderman, things could get fancy here.
But it’s foolish to think that Hello Kitty can heal. It’s silly to run to people who struggle just as much as me, hoping they can fix my trembling heart.
And so, I have been learning to sit on the train and see the glory of Christ in the pure white snow flying by. The snowflakes are so detailed here, which reminds me to thank God for the detail in me.
I am most often confused and conflicted with the raging thoughts and heart palpations within, wondering if I’m just making it all up or perhaps it’s just indigestion from all those tempting (of course I gave in) pastries.
But the battle is fierce here. I know this because worship has been powerful this month. The Spirit’s presence has been so thick in the room, the place I go when my vocal chords vibrate simply cannot be described. The enemy is here, twisting my insides and trying with everything he can to stop my hands from typing out this very sentence, but the presence and power of the Lord is beyond greater. He has given me joy in the simplest of things: giggles and hugs from a four year old, a winter coat for three dollars, chocolate and train rides, red faced laughter with friends and remembering impressionable moments from the last eight months of this journey.
He is alive, and he is at work. In me, in my squad, in this country. And though the struggle is real and the road is hard at times, I am more than honored to be walking it for Jesus, with Jesus.
Pastry?
