One of the themes throughout my time in Kenya was the distinct and conscious “feeling” that each day mattered, that I had been called there specifically for that day, the people I would meet, the lessons I would teach, the walks I would take. I awoke with a purpose, a clear picture of what I was supposed to do and go. I felt called, equipped, and needed. I was driven, joyful, and excited to experience each day that came—the challenges and the triumphs. The time was short; I wanted to make the most of it.
But as I’ve settled into my life back in the states; slowly the complacency, the drudgery of normalcy, the “mundane” has robbed me of a purposed perspective. I’ve forgotten that I’m just as much purposed and called today—to the people I work with, the children I serve, and the friends I share a cup of coffee with.
It’s funny how beginnings, endings, and new
experiences remind us of the purpose in each day. As the school year winds down, and I am
approaching the “one year since I left for Kenya” mark, I am already becoming
nostalgic. Countless times in the last few weeks I have made mental notes of “this
is the second to last time that...” and sighed with thankfulness and a twinge
of sadness. As I entered this second to last week with the kiddos I’ve grown to
love I have found myself grateful and marking the simple, everyday things—the wide
smiles, loud cries of excitement, constant songs, artistic bursts, and creative
phrases. I am intentionally going into each day wanting to show them love,
acceptance, and to call them up to their best and to push them with
encouragement to achieve it—because the time is short and this day, this hour,
the people I am with right now—matter.
But in reality, each day, monotonous or momentous,
hold that same weight and truth. Tragedy strikes, tornados touch down, we
breathe our last breaths. Tonight I write with renewed vigor, joy, and yes,
purpose. This day, this mundane Wednesday evening-matters.
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