The Late-Night Grumbles, Rumbles, and Mutterings of a Sleep-Deprived Me.

Life is crazy. I go to Mozambique for two months, then fly to England and stay there for a month, then come back to America and almost immediately start working at Camp David of the Ozarks. I haven't had time to blog. Haven't had time to think. Barely had time to answer the inevitable 'have you re-adjusted to America yet?' question that everyone asks me. Right now, my patent answer to that question is 'no'. Partially because I never was really adjusted to America, and partially because most of my time since coming back to the U.S. has been spent at camp. Camp isn't exactly stereotypical American society.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I really want to re-adjust. The me that came back from Mozambique is a better person than the me who stepped onto a plane on March 12. I suppose I'm just a little worried that re-adjusting might mean losing a bit of that change. It might mean losing the sense of gratitude I feel when I can speak English to total strangers. It might mean losing my faith in God's awesome power. It might mean becoming (oh horrors)! a self-absorbed, middle class American. But how exactly do I explain all that to people? How do I explain that, the longer I'm in the U.S., the more I want to hang on to the bits of Mozambique that I picked up along the way?

Last weekend was incredible. I got to spend time with Zhenya, Jon, and Carla. We trotted out all the inside jokes we'd laughed over in Mozambique. We lamented American grocery stores' shortage of peri-peri sauce and really good soda. And I was humbled by the fact that Jon and Carla are uncomplainingly going through a much tougher adjustment process than mine. No, I really don't have room to complain. But sometimes I want to do it, anyway. And sometimes I just want to be around someone who understands. Case in point: This morning, I almost wished several people 'good morning' in Sena. And I would have given a lot if Zhenya had been on the spot to give the appropriate response.

So, I try desperately to hold onto the past, even as I look towards a completely unknown and unplanned future. And, because I want people to understand, I tell stories. I talk about the boys who sang Justin Bieber songs to Zhenya and me as we walked through the village. I talk about Pastor Mario, Stewa, and the impromptu prayer meetings in Beira. I try to remember how to sing the 'God is so Good' song in Portuguese. And I worry that I'm boring people. 'They don't really want to hear your stories'. The doubts come whispering. 'They're just being polite. They wish you'd go pester someone else with all your Mozambique tall tales.' Of course, I know that these thoughts are only partly true, but they do still rankle. I know that many people will never, ever be able to understand fully. My words will never be eloquent enough to describe my experiences properly. But maybe, for some, a glimpse is better than nothing at all. Maybe this is all okay.

I must keep reminding myself that I would not want to have things any other way. Do I really want to fit in? No. I was called to stand out for a reason. I'm not sure just what that reason is yet, but I'm pretty confident that God has it all figured out. So, while I'm waiting for the next step to be revealed, I will gird myself with a capulana, sing worship songs in Portuguese, and try to remember to use English the rest of the time. I will remind myself that the powerful God of Mozambique is the same in America, too. And above all, I will worship that powerful God and be a small part of showing Him to everyone I encounter.