I'm back in my cornfields now, and I love it. I'm realizing that sometime over the past year or so, this place, these people have become my heart-home, the place I know I can find peace and rest and belonging...and it's beautiful. I am grace filled and thankful--but at the same time, every reunion comes with the question--so how were the Philippines? And I love this question. I love the sincere desire to know, the care that question shows, especially for the people who know how worried and angsty I was about going and teaching in a classroom all day. It reminds me that we were prayed for every step of the way, and we never stepped foot anywhere without the prayers of people who loved us. It reminds me of the miracles that happened, the good work He is doing in and through us and the people we met--but at the same time, there's only so much you can say. And, in most conversations, in most occurrences where this question is asked, it's extraordinarily difficult to give an answer that is honest enough, that covers everything that that trip was and everything in your heart that was shaken and stirred, and there the awkward unanswered questions that remain long after.
I'm finding that, for the most part, when you come back from any kind of overseas trip, your first instinct is to give answers kind of like I did the week I came back--and that is all real and good and it came from the heart. There's a certain script you follow for those dear people who ask you about your trip. You recount all of the amazing things you did and saw, the poverty and joy of the people, how content they are with how little, and the person you're talking to smiles and nods and oohs and ahhs in admiration. You talk about what you ate and how the weather was and some things you learned, and the listener nods thoughtfully, but all the while, there's a huge purple elephant in the room. That purple elephant is the manifestation of the unanswered questions, the bigger parts of the story, the regrets and the should haves and the what ifs. The work that God's doing that you don't entirely understand and the parts of the story that aren't as easily told. Well, that huge purple elephant has been pretty much sitting on my chest this week, and so I'm going to take a deep breath, shift the elephant's weight a little and tell the rest of the story, hoping to open some doors and break down a few walls and find Him in the process
Throughout the trip, I think I was lonely and reeling and refusing to allow myself to really feel much of anything. To be perfectly honest, his trip was the most homesick I've been, and a huge part of the problem was that I wasn't even sure which home to be homesick for. Belonging and roots and loneliness are kind of sore subjects these days, and I felt that in a big way over the month of January. I'm a little angry at God these days, struggling with how I seem to live out of a suitcase these days, how awkward I felt in places that were supposed to be home, how I still doubt the people who hold my heart, and this leaked into how I related to the team. I don't discount the ways God was moving---I did get to know the team better just by living with them for a month, and they are all so fun and loud and hilarious---but it was hard to connect with them in a way that felt like it mattered.
Maybe because it was a class, maybe because I was distracted and lonely, or maybe just because I believed something and chose to see only what proved that belief to be true---but I just struggled to feel connected to the rest of the team. We lived together, prayed at meals, walked to and from school together, and there WAS bonding that happened as a result of that. Every night we spent maybe thirty minutes together as a team for team time, sharing highs and lows and listening to missionaries, which was awesome--- but somehow, it didn't feel like quite enough. We were so busy. All. The. Time---with lesson planning and schoolwork and whatever service we did during the day--and by the time we got to team time, we had very little time to sit around and process everything we had seen and done. A few members shared some great stories of things they had done, some hard things they had seen, but we only had so much time. By the time I had worked up the nerve to say something, let alone figured out how to say it, we had pretty much moved on. I got to the end of the trip and realized that I had very little idea of how the trip had stretched members of the team, their stories of where they had been and where they're going, and it kind of breaks my heart.
For me, the hardest part of the trip was the last week. After I had finished my observation that Friday, settled down into my classroom and begun to believe that maybe I could actually do this. After I had taught four lessons in the first two weeks we were there and learned names and hearts and stories, and even a couple words in Tagalog. I had had conversations and gone on feedings, and I was pretty sure I was at least close to okay. I was feeling more comfortable, more competent, like I was doing something that mattered. But I was tired, lonely, spending my days surrounded by people but running on empty and not quite wanting to admit it--until two things happened that brought me face to face with what I had been running from.
I checked my email Sunday night after our second week there---again, a very full, very how-on-earth-am-I-actually-doing this? kind of week---and there was an email waiting for me from my mom saying (along with other things) that Tasha, our sweet family dog, had died the Wednesday of that crazy busy week. And that rocked my world. I loved this dog a ridiculous amount.
It sounds cheesy and dramatic, but after Hershey died when I was in middle school, she was a reminder that it was possible to love again, that my heart could stretch enough to hold two dogs close. She was a beacon of hope after an incredibly hard winter, losing Hershey and getting thyroid cancer. Our world was rocked for a while, but we survived and Tasha brought new life, new hope into our family. But as I had been running around, doing crazy things and finding out that maybe I could do this teaching thing after all, Tasha, my sweet girl, had been spiraling downwards. Fast. She had been my anchor, my comfort, my welcome home for so long. I've wrestled with belonging and roots and loneliness, for a long time, especially as I entered college, but as long as she was around, I had someone drawing me back, someone reminding me that I'm always loved, always treasured. I loved that dog more than I ever thought I could. And now she's gone and I'm feeling her absence---how empty our house was, how the whole family and everyone I knew was out and about, going about their business in a place where they knew they belonged. I felt how empty and quiet the house felt without her bed, her crate, her nose prints on the window by the front door. The click of her fingernails on the wood floor, her quirky habits and bark, her sweet face. Honestly, I still don't know what I'm going to do without her.
As I was reeling, trying to organize myself back into something that worked, something that I could offer to pour out--I was still on a mission trip after all--I felt this tickle in my throat Monday night that had sort of been there all weekend. Tuesday morning, I woke up without a voice. I was livid. And exhausted. But mostly livid. Because, really? I lose my dog AND my voice within a few nights of each other? How is that fair, and what purpose does that achieve? I wanted so badly to teach another lesson before I left, to add to what I could share with the people back home, to further reassure myself that I could do this, that I WAS a teacher and it wasn't a fluke, and now I was out of commission. I was still in the classroom, still with the kids, but no more lessons. No more pulling activities together and reading textbooks and finding ways to make learning meaningful. I did some small group work, and I went on another feeding and to the orphanage a few times, but I missed so much. I had a fever and a weird ache in my chest, and I spent the first half of that next week absolutely exhausted. All. The. Time. My voice came back slowly for the last two days we were in the classroom (THANK GOD), so I got to say goodbye and get on the plane home without feeling too awful. God is good and in control, and I know there was a reason behind that mess of a last week, but a part of me couldn't help feeling a little cheated, and I haven't been able to shake that feeling, that haunting question--did I do enough? Because that whole month we were there, I so did not feel like enough. I felt empty, tired, a little overwhelmed. There were so many times I crawled into my bunk and cried, because I literally had nothing left to offer. I gave what I had, but there was always more need, kids outside the gates that didn't get cups of water and a student who didn't get lunch because he asked me to remind the cook back at the compound and I didn't, and all of it haunted me. Maybe I've always struggled with that, with seeing everything that I didn't do, everything I missed out on, and everything I'm unable to offer. Even before that last week, I had felt myself wearing out, because, wow, there are needs in this world that I can't fill, problems I can't fix, people I can't seem to love well on my own. Despite all of my best efforts, there might always be someone who slips through the cracks, and sometimes, that knowledge has weight enough to crush me.
And now I'm sitting in this place I love so much, surrounded by people I love dearly, and I'm reeling a little. I'm a little puzzled, a little lonelier, a little more broken than usual. Things keep happening, and I have no idea how to process any of this. I'm not sure how to reconcile God's goodness to what's happening in my life, in my family's lives, in the lives of people I love. I'm not sure I remember how to love well or receive His love. I do know He is here and good and in control. I know He sees me and this mess is for a reason---but where's the happy ending? the new perspective, the clarity and refreshment that's supposed to come with going overseas? Where's the mission trip high, the satisfaction that comes from seeing His work firsthand? What happens now? Finding that I AM a teacher is part of the story, but it's not all of it. This stuff is just as much a part of what happened down there--the messiness, the questions, the uncertainty--and I'm learning that trying to hide it might not be the best idea.
I'm finding that sometimes I need room to let myself not be okay, to ask the hard questions and feel the uncomfortable feelings, to realize that fullest life does not come from hiding in the shadows and pretending everything's fine. This is part of the story. It's a painful part of the story, sure, and there are no easy answers, but there is Truth that quiets my fears and my doubts and turns them away with a word if I let Him. Because brokenness cannot be healed if it's not acknowledged, and acknowledging brokenness doesn't mean hope is lost. Because I'm still here. God's still here. I am not giving up.
I am not destroyed.
I am not abandoned.
I am not consumed.
Because this hurt, this loneliness, whatever the world this is--it doesn't define me. What defines me is that, in the midst of all this, I am His. This story deserves to be told in all of its fullness, because even in these, there is always the unexpected grace, the hints of His goodness, the deeper story that He just keeps writing. This is the way He chooses to draw me closer to Him.
I'm finding that, for the most part, when you come back from any kind of overseas trip, your first instinct is to give answers kind of like I did the week I came back--and that is all real and good and it came from the heart. There's a certain script you follow for those dear people who ask you about your trip. You recount all of the amazing things you did and saw, the poverty and joy of the people, how content they are with how little, and the person you're talking to smiles and nods and oohs and ahhs in admiration. You talk about what you ate and how the weather was and some things you learned, and the listener nods thoughtfully, but all the while, there's a huge purple elephant in the room. That purple elephant is the manifestation of the unanswered questions, the bigger parts of the story, the regrets and the should haves and the what ifs. The work that God's doing that you don't entirely understand and the parts of the story that aren't as easily told. Well, that huge purple elephant has been pretty much sitting on my chest this week, and so I'm going to take a deep breath, shift the elephant's weight a little and tell the rest of the story, hoping to open some doors and break down a few walls and find Him in the process
Throughout the trip, I think I was lonely and reeling and refusing to allow myself to really feel much of anything. To be perfectly honest, his trip was the most homesick I've been, and a huge part of the problem was that I wasn't even sure which home to be homesick for. Belonging and roots and loneliness are kind of sore subjects these days, and I felt that in a big way over the month of January. I'm a little angry at God these days, struggling with how I seem to live out of a suitcase these days, how awkward I felt in places that were supposed to be home, how I still doubt the people who hold my heart, and this leaked into how I related to the team. I don't discount the ways God was moving---I did get to know the team better just by living with them for a month, and they are all so fun and loud and hilarious---but it was hard to connect with them in a way that felt like it mattered.
Maybe because it was a class, maybe because I was distracted and lonely, or maybe just because I believed something and chose to see only what proved that belief to be true---but I just struggled to feel connected to the rest of the team. We lived together, prayed at meals, walked to and from school together, and there WAS bonding that happened as a result of that. Every night we spent maybe thirty minutes together as a team for team time, sharing highs and lows and listening to missionaries, which was awesome--- but somehow, it didn't feel like quite enough. We were so busy. All. The. Time---with lesson planning and schoolwork and whatever service we did during the day--and by the time we got to team time, we had very little time to sit around and process everything we had seen and done. A few members shared some great stories of things they had done, some hard things they had seen, but we only had so much time. By the time I had worked up the nerve to say something, let alone figured out how to say it, we had pretty much moved on. I got to the end of the trip and realized that I had very little idea of how the trip had stretched members of the team, their stories of where they had been and where they're going, and it kind of breaks my heart.
For me, the hardest part of the trip was the last week. After I had finished my observation that Friday, settled down into my classroom and begun to believe that maybe I could actually do this. After I had taught four lessons in the first two weeks we were there and learned names and hearts and stories, and even a couple words in Tagalog. I had had conversations and gone on feedings, and I was pretty sure I was at least close to okay. I was feeling more comfortable, more competent, like I was doing something that mattered. But I was tired, lonely, spending my days surrounded by people but running on empty and not quite wanting to admit it--until two things happened that brought me face to face with what I had been running from.
I checked my email Sunday night after our second week there---again, a very full, very how-on-earth-am-I-actually-doing this? kind of week---and there was an email waiting for me from my mom saying (along with other things) that Tasha, our sweet family dog, had died the Wednesday of that crazy busy week. And that rocked my world. I loved this dog a ridiculous amount.
It sounds cheesy and dramatic, but after Hershey died when I was in middle school, she was a reminder that it was possible to love again, that my heart could stretch enough to hold two dogs close. She was a beacon of hope after an incredibly hard winter, losing Hershey and getting thyroid cancer. Our world was rocked for a while, but we survived and Tasha brought new life, new hope into our family. But as I had been running around, doing crazy things and finding out that maybe I could do this teaching thing after all, Tasha, my sweet girl, had been spiraling downwards. Fast. She had been my anchor, my comfort, my welcome home for so long. I've wrestled with belonging and roots and loneliness, for a long time, especially as I entered college, but as long as she was around, I had someone drawing me back, someone reminding me that I'm always loved, always treasured. I loved that dog more than I ever thought I could. And now she's gone and I'm feeling her absence---how empty our house was, how the whole family and everyone I knew was out and about, going about their business in a place where they knew they belonged. I felt how empty and quiet the house felt without her bed, her crate, her nose prints on the window by the front door. The click of her fingernails on the wood floor, her quirky habits and bark, her sweet face. Honestly, I still don't know what I'm going to do without her.
As I was reeling, trying to organize myself back into something that worked, something that I could offer to pour out--I was still on a mission trip after all--I felt this tickle in my throat Monday night that had sort of been there all weekend. Tuesday morning, I woke up without a voice. I was livid. And exhausted. But mostly livid. Because, really? I lose my dog AND my voice within a few nights of each other? How is that fair, and what purpose does that achieve? I wanted so badly to teach another lesson before I left, to add to what I could share with the people back home, to further reassure myself that I could do this, that I WAS a teacher and it wasn't a fluke, and now I was out of commission. I was still in the classroom, still with the kids, but no more lessons. No more pulling activities together and reading textbooks and finding ways to make learning meaningful. I did some small group work, and I went on another feeding and to the orphanage a few times, but I missed so much. I had a fever and a weird ache in my chest, and I spent the first half of that next week absolutely exhausted. All. The. Time. My voice came back slowly for the last two days we were in the classroom (THANK GOD), so I got to say goodbye and get on the plane home without feeling too awful. God is good and in control, and I know there was a reason behind that mess of a last week, but a part of me couldn't help feeling a little cheated, and I haven't been able to shake that feeling, that haunting question--did I do enough? Because that whole month we were there, I so did not feel like enough. I felt empty, tired, a little overwhelmed. There were so many times I crawled into my bunk and cried, because I literally had nothing left to offer. I gave what I had, but there was always more need, kids outside the gates that didn't get cups of water and a student who didn't get lunch because he asked me to remind the cook back at the compound and I didn't, and all of it haunted me. Maybe I've always struggled with that, with seeing everything that I didn't do, everything I missed out on, and everything I'm unable to offer. Even before that last week, I had felt myself wearing out, because, wow, there are needs in this world that I can't fill, problems I can't fix, people I can't seem to love well on my own. Despite all of my best efforts, there might always be someone who slips through the cracks, and sometimes, that knowledge has weight enough to crush me.
And now I'm sitting in this place I love so much, surrounded by people I love dearly, and I'm reeling a little. I'm a little puzzled, a little lonelier, a little more broken than usual. Things keep happening, and I have no idea how to process any of this. I'm not sure how to reconcile God's goodness to what's happening in my life, in my family's lives, in the lives of people I love. I'm not sure I remember how to love well or receive His love. I do know He is here and good and in control. I know He sees me and this mess is for a reason---but where's the happy ending? the new perspective, the clarity and refreshment that's supposed to come with going overseas? Where's the mission trip high, the satisfaction that comes from seeing His work firsthand? What happens now? Finding that I AM a teacher is part of the story, but it's not all of it. This stuff is just as much a part of what happened down there--the messiness, the questions, the uncertainty--and I'm learning that trying to hide it might not be the best idea.
I'm finding that sometimes I need room to let myself not be okay, to ask the hard questions and feel the uncomfortable feelings, to realize that fullest life does not come from hiding in the shadows and pretending everything's fine. This is part of the story. It's a painful part of the story, sure, and there are no easy answers, but there is Truth that quiets my fears and my doubts and turns them away with a word if I let Him. Because brokenness cannot be healed if it's not acknowledged, and acknowledging brokenness doesn't mean hope is lost. Because I'm still here. God's still here. I am not giving up.
I am not destroyed.
I am not abandoned.
I am not consumed.
Because this hurt, this loneliness, whatever the world this is--it doesn't define me. What defines me is that, in the midst of all this, I am His. This story deserves to be told in all of its fullness, because even in these, there is always the unexpected grace, the hints of His goodness, the deeper story that He just keeps writing. This is the way He chooses to draw me closer to Him.
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