I don’t want to process—yet I’m realizing how much I’m really just along for the ride for the mental journey this is. I don’t want to write tonight. I want to rest in the thousand little things about this year that were so joyful…I even numbered them and tucked them away in a neatly collaged journal. I don’t want to write about the children I want to scoop up in hugs and remind that no matter what the world, their parents, their caregivers tell them they are not an accident and they are infinitely loved. I don’t want to write about the fact that I actually miss the deep breath necessary before a bus passed by on my daily walk. I don’t want to write about missing stoney (ginger ale in glass bottles), the noise of market chatter, the abundance of fresh mangos and infant-sized avocados. I don’t want to write about friends I miss, who even after a mere 90 days left a life-long impact. No—tonight I want to sleep, recover from a cold, and rest.
But part of the processing is the patient persistence of doing what I can with what is on my heart and mind. “Short term missions” is a misnomer—its implications are life-long and life-changing—nothing “short” about that. It certainly has a myriad of rosy and joyful moments—but don’t be naïve that those moments are without momentous ramifications.
Ironically, this post is a bookend to a week of feeling rooted and with normalcy. I may not want to write but I choose to obey the nudge. I do write to convey, to change, to cultivate joy and bring clarity. I write because I am compelled, called, and confident. I am confident that this confusion is a part of the re-entry. It will pass. I will rest. I will process. I will want to write again.
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