It’s been a week since I moved home; a week since I left my independent life. Everything looks and feels different here and I’m still adjusting to this home, a word this nomadic heart wrestles with. No longer do I see the colonial architecture that spotted the streets. No longer do I feel the urgency to ‘make something of myself in this town’. Instead, I find myself going down the tree-lined streets of my past which are filled with new stores, new families, and new faces. Heartland hospitality and small-town familiarity meet me at every corner and I hesitate, not used to these feelings. It’s like I’ve returned to the pond I grew up in except instead of being the duckling I was, I’m the lost, grown duck I never thought would actually happen. The area is the same, but I’m different.
And so, I take time to adjust to it all. I’m reminding myself of who I am as I’m thrown back into the place that is my past. It’s a delicate balance of mixing old and new; of introductions and reconnections. I’m looking forward while trying to be fully present here.
And I remind myself to rejoice in it all. I’m remembering to be grateful for the year I have here to be with my family, to rest, to dive deep into relationships, to build a strong(er) foundation before I leave for full-time missions. I’m remembering to be grateful for the small things and the unexpected things like a chance to take my little cousins to museums and to have dinner with my brother- things I haven’t been able to do in 10 years.
It’s been a week. One week. I’m excited to see how God will use all of this (and probably more) next week and the week after and the week after, until He calls me to the place He has for me.