I sit here. The air that fills my lungs is crisp. My nose tingles and the tips of my fingers are cold. Maybe it’s because the sixteen months leading up to this moment were spent in summer. Perpetually sweating. Day dreaming of the days I could put on jeans without them sticking to my sides as I try to slide them up. Well my friends, that day has come. I walk around my now home in socks and sweatshirts. The smell of the fireplace fills my nostrils.
Transition. It’s truly an abrasive word. Nothing subtle about it. Having not enough fingers or toes to count the transitions that have happened in my life, I can promise you there is nothing discrete about it. However with their lack of subtlety there is indescribable beauty in each transition.
A year ago today my feet were making footprints in the red dirt of Cambodia. Riding bikes in the rice fields and holding the hands of Hurt and Heartbreak. I was quenching my thirst with questionable water, and eating rice three meals a day.
Now my days are filled with classes on soul care, behavioral leadership, theology and neuroscience. Raising awareness for the cause that makes my heart race and hands shake: commercial sexual exploitation. As well as working a part time job in a local boutique.
All things I never thought I would be doing. All things thrust upon me in the mess of transition.
If you would have painted a picture of this life for me while I was on the race, you would have received eye rolling and heavy sarcasm. I thought nothing truly adventurous or worthwhile could come from a life in America. Yet as I sit here, I have never been so sure that I am home in this season. Never have I been so aware or so in awe of all The Father is doing.
Yes, each transition is truly different than the one prior. Yet in every aspect of them all The Father continues to show himself faithful in the process.
