I am in between.
I am flying, high above the clouds.
I am walking, steps weighted and direct.
I am trapped between tears and laughter.
I am not ready.
But I have to be.
Georgia is a place completely opposite of my home in the Pacific Northwest. Right now, home is probably turning shades of orange while wrapped in a blanket in preparation for the cold ahead. But here, I’m still warm in a long-sleeve and shorts. Here, there’s sweet tea and accents and dreams that I can no longer let sit as just dreams.
I so often think back to one of my last nights in Nicaragua, singing with strangers I had come to call brothers and sisters. It was dark and humid, and I stood on the edge of the group, looking up at the star dotted sky.
“Am I going to forget this?” I thought. “Will I just go back to normal?” The doubts snowballed; I tried my best to answer with a firm “no!” and was met with opposition only a few short days later. I could read signs on buildings again. People had service on their phones and were consumed instantly. I fed a baby cow with a giant bottle and she stepped on my foot and I laughed in pain, realizing that, in America, that’s quite abnormal.
I haven’t met a baby cow since that first day back in the States.
So here, four months later, I ask the same question: “Will I just go back to normal?” Because normal has basically ushered in a nomadic, more anxious version of myself but the normal I miss is the free spirited, deep rooted person I discovered abroad. Will this normal be here in Georgia, I wonder?
I’m fearful that it is.
Not that I was entirely complacent during the summer season, but I do think I’ve been quieter than I should be. And quiet becomes comfort way too fast.
So I am fearful that Georgia will remind me of what I swore I wouldn’t forget that night in Nicaragua. I’m fearful that TV and a couch will no longer suffice and I will be pushed yet again beyond what I know (so far, this is 100% true).
It’s funny that what we fear is what we need and what we refuse to let happen can suck us in before we even realize it.
Flying across the country to my new home, I wished for nothing but a cloud like the ones I saw beyond the scratched up plexiglass. Clearly my childish desire of sitting on a white puffy cloud has not subsided. They were so inviting, full of fluff and good feelings. Can’t I just stay up here, away from the uncertainty and busyness of life below? It’s much closer to the sun, and to Jesus. I justified to myself and the heavens.
But Jesus is down here, too.
He’s everywhere in fact.
And no matter the PNW, the South or up in the clouds, he’s holding my hand and tugging me on our walk down the road. The homes are pretty at least.
Courage, dear heart. Courage.
