Because there’s that unexpected
reality that being back home is hard.
Really hard.
For months leading up to Nepal, I prepared. I agonized over
what to pack and what to leave at home, I read everything I could about Nepali
culture, I took self defense classes, I spent hours preparing my heart and
praying over the weeks to come. And my time in Nepal was worth every effort of
preparation. . . but then I came home. My summer is over. I’m talking about
Nepal in past tense now. Those weeks seem like a blur, a blur that sometimes doesn’t
even feel like reality. Did I really spend my summer halfway around the world? Did
I actually live and become comfortable in a chaotic foreign city? Did I really
(finally) meet Sakina? Have I really only known my teammates for two months?
How in the world can it all be over? And, more importantly, how do I keep going
now that it is over?
I pass people and it’s often the same question. “Are you
settling back into being home? And you’re finally processing everything?!” My
answer is an awkward laugh and probably a shrug of my shoulders. It’s not a
real answer, because really? No, I’m not settled into life at home at all. I’ve
just begun to finally process everything
that happened, everything I saw. Yes, I may be over the jet lag and I may be
caught up on coffee dates where I fill in the details of my summer, but I’m not
exactly settled. I’m anything but settled. I’m struggling to find my footing. I
don’t know how to go back to my normal life & routine after this summer. What
even is normal now?
For months, my constant prayers were that this summer I’d
deeply and truly love the people of Nepal and that our team would be unified. .
. and the Father heard. He gave me eyes to really
see the people I met in Nepal, followed by a love for them beyond what I
thought was possible. And my team—we were unified, we were a team in every
sense of the word. Those nine women (and Austin) became the body of Christ to
me.
So to go from weeks of begging to feel the Father’s heart
for these people and for this team, to being suddenly separated from each of them—it’s
hard. The reality that my brief time in Nepal is now over has hit me, full
force.
It’s hard to go from being part of a deep, intentional
community 24/7 to spending my days mostly alone.
It’s hard (the hardest) to group skype with 9 of my 11
teammates. To remember their quirks and our inside jokes, to have them
understand the hard days, to remember the weeks we spent together. . . and yet,
I’m not with them. I hang up, and they’re gone. It was good to talk, but it was
hard to leave. Again.
It’s hard to see the faces of friends I left in Nepal &
realize that life over there keeps going, yet I’m no longer part of it.
It’s hard to know that I can’t hang out with Tiny Hands people again. I can’t play soccer with the boys at One Way Home any
more. I can’t listen to the stories of Tiny Hands staff or be part of worship
nights.
It’s hard not to wish I’d done more or had more time.
It’s hard to be out of an environment where Jesus was center
and community was strong.
It’s hard to be back in normal routines, routines I’m no
longer content with. I’ve seen deeper and better and more, and I want that, not this.
It’s hard to come home with a passion and excitement for
loving the least of these, yet here that’s a lot trickier and a whole lot less
clear cut.
It’s hard to leave Sakina and her kids. I can't bring them juice + rice or sit on that dusty street with them again. I know nothing about
her anymore-- Is she still there near Thamel? Is she still safe? Is anyone else
telling her about Jesus? Will she stay on the streets or will her kids have a
chance to go to school and get off the streets? Who is there looking after
them, checking on them, loving them like Jesus does?
It’s hard to come home where the reality that God has a good
plan for my life is much, much foggier. It’s harder to be convinced of that
when nothing makes sense right now and every fragile dream feels like it’s
falling apart.
It’s hard to still be okay with opening my heart and saying “yes”
to Jesus. Everything seems much less clear here than it did in Nepal.
It’s hard to spend a summer doing something meaningful with
the majority of my days—whether it was learning about trafficking or encouraging
a teammate or playing with street kids, there was purpose in all of it—but then
to come home and fall back into a routine of busyness without much purpose.
Unpacking, grocery shopping, planning for classes to start, organizing +
cleaning, working. The purpose and the benefit is hidden, not out in the open
anymore. And that’s hard.
It’s hard to have time to think, to let the reality of everything
I saw in Nepal come crashing down: Street children. Earthquake damage. The constitution draft. Buddhism. Hinduism. Pashupati. Trafficking. Corrupt government.
It’s hard to fall so deeply in love with a place and a
people, only to leave.
I don’t have answers on how to make this easier. I barely even have words to put to
these feelings. . .
Reminders are everywhere that I’m not in Nepal anymore. It hurts.
My heart aches.
But as I’m here, and though this season feels impossibly
hard, there is beauty. There is much
to be thankful for:
I’m thankful for simple things like fresh fruits +
vegetables, a tapestry + Christmas lights hanging in my bedroom, power that
always stays on, my own car to drive, and air conditioning. I’m thankful for
trees and places to hike and coffee shops to inhabit.
I’m thankful for the community I have at home. This
community is not one made up of 9 girls who live together, but it’s one made up
of friends who intentionally and truly care how I’m doing, who ask + answer the
hard questions, who start discussions about what it means to really follow
Jesus. The more I miss my teammates, the more I see the love of my people here.
They’re the breath of fresh air that’s helping me work through the mess and the
brokenness of this season.
I’m thankful that I have space + time to process, to write, to just
be as I’m working through post-Nepal emotions. I’m not rushing back into “real
life” or school yet, I’m just quietly learning to give myself grace as I work
through this.
I’m thankful that I crave worship + time with Jesus like I never
have before. Yes, it’s something I have to fight to make time for. It’s
frustrating that my relationship with God isn’t as natural as it was in Nepal. I
still can go several days without spending time with my Best Friend. . . But at
least now I realize it. I feel a difference when I’m not taking everything to
His feet, when I’m not starting every morning soaking in His words. No, there
aren’t rooftops to sit on every morning anymore. . . but there are long drives
into the mountains, there are hiding places in the woods, there are quiet
mornings on my bedroom floor where Jesus fills and satisfies and is sweeter
than anything I’ve ever known.
I’m thankful that prayer has shifted from something that I-kinda-sorta-never-do
to something that I-HAVE-TO-DO-RIGHT-NOW-OR-I-CAN’T-FUNCTION. I’ve seen the
power of prayer. I’ve watched it change everything. I’ve watched it change me.
I’ve seen God work. I’ve felt His presence when we’ve prayed. I need it, daily.
I need it desperately.
I’m thankful that this summer put reality to things I’ve
studied. Trafficking is no longer just a cause to me—it’s real people I’ve met,
a real thing that has to end. Orphans are real kids—I’ve met them, I’ve seen
what kids are like when they’re not in a family and I’ve seen what happens when
someone loves them and shows them Jesus. Nepal gave me a passion to love the
least of these, it motivated me to get involved in the community here, to keep
pursuing these things long-term.
This season is hard; I’m not going to lie. It’s a fight to
trust, a fight for joy.
But in the middle of it all, there’s Jesus. He’s here,
always. And He brings all the peace I’ll ever need. He brings beauty into my
brokenness and turns my weakness into His strength. . . So at the end of the
day, it’s worth it. He is worth it all. And if this struggle and all that is
hard about being home means that I see Jesus more clearly—it’s worth every
second of it.
