Snow on bare feet

I have lived in a different sort of existence these last months, my time filled with writing and grading papers and hospital clinicals, with food by the handful here and there and the majority of my apartment time spent in exhausted sleep and the occasional dish washing.  Somewhere along the way my muse hibernated away in a stained wooden crate, tucked up in quilts and waiting patiently until my life quieted enough that I could take the time to coax him out with reflection in sunshine through the fat snowflakes falling, a handful of dried apples and venison jerky, and a cup of steaming spicy chai.

Autumn came and went on my friendly new campus, with wind in the leaves swirling a glorious blaze of color and fog poking tendrils up around the windows, treks through the public market, and apples of every kind by the bushel.  I graded never-ending papers in coffee shops and on couches and on car trips, and when I wasn’t grading I wrote my own research papers every weekend afternoon and evening, curled up under a blanket on the couch or mainlining coffee next to the gas fireplace at Panera.

I budgeted in time with friends: 2-4 hours a week, or they were welcome to join me with their own work in the new rhythm that had become my life.  Because instead of life to the rhythm of the triumphant djembe I had temporarily traded for the endless soft song of the pianist by firelight – touching only those souls who came near enough to stop and listen, entranced, hummingbirds in amber.

Winter came one day to lightly kiss the tips of the grass and ends of tree branches, then dropping snow on my bare feet in a gentle reminder that I should really start wearing some winter-appropriate shoes.  My thermals and I longed for some outdoor adventure, but they patiently wrote papers with me instead until my landlord finally dropped off a space heater and I could feel my fingers again.  The crockpot and I became inseparable.

The first day of Christmas break was like waking from a busy and tiring dream (one of those dreams where I rushed around doing CPR and saving lives all night) and preparing to face reality only to realize that the dream is my reality along with the waking, two sides to the same coin of my newly changed life in transition.

Many have asked if I miss Africa and the Africa Mercy, why I would leave, and if I ever would go back.  The honest answer is that I do miss that life and those people, with all my heart.  I didn’t leave because had lost that love – I left because it was time to go.

Time to go, while I still deeply love what I do.  I could not wait until the frustrations of life crept in, until I lost enough patients I could no longer grieve, and changed roommates until I could no longer be excited for the ones I would have.  Perhaps I'll be back, or not, but I know that I'll have each small thing I learned to take with me through life - whether it will be life in Rochester, back on ship, or exploring some new direction.

There are challenges and adventures prepared especially for me here and now: people to serve, lives and hearts to touch as they grow.  It is a vastly different calling for a time, and yet really not so different at all.  Somehow I’ve discovered that God can be found in America, too.