The cats are curled up like lazy commas all around the house and I’m tempted to join them except it would totally ruin my “recovery from jet lag” plan!
Instead, I find myself sitting here scanning through the nearly three weeks of pictures and the very real memory of it all hits me right between my breastbone and eyeballs: the places I’ve been, the things I’ve seen, the lives that were touched along the way.
The way my life was touched by theirs.
The naked joy of uniformed school children in all degrees of dress, running, laughing and waving along roadsides strewn with trash.
The constant underlying tension of poverty and despair pulling hard against the unmistakeable beauty of life being lived more simply.
And how that strange medley of sight, sound and smell still gathers around the edges of each photo taken in that land seemingly fueled by diesel, dust and dung.
It gets on you. It gets in you.
It changes you.
It really has to and you sorta want it to even though you know… it won’t be temporary.
I’ve done enough trips like this so that by now I expect and welcome the changes that must come in me as a result.
I’ve also learned not to exploit the situation by getting ridiculously sappy and over emotional (you can thank me later) while expressing what I know God did there– as if He doesn’t do amazing things right here or anywhere else if we only have the eyes to see that it’s not about the location.
I’m not here to say I’m moving to Africa (unless God calls us to) but I confess that I am being moved and I hope to never stop moving.