Each night I climb in a car to go home with any number of complete strangers. We are introduced, but conveniently enough because of the children, 'Auntie' and 'Uncle' are the names they usually go by (which saves the embarrassment I have had in the past by calling tonight's host by the name of last night's host). It's a life full of strangers, every minute characterized by a very obnoxious, talkative worm that seems to live in my head - always saying things like "Why does it matter, when tomorrow you'll be gone?" There's a new kind of wall being built up around my heart - for better or for worse - because when I become "friends" with people I meet - in a matter of days or even hours, they go back to their normal life and I climb on a bus - and we'll probably never see or hear from each other again until we are together in Glory. Perhaps even, I think we've gotten along really well and as I'm contemplating giving my email address to them to keep in touch - they casually wave goodbye and once again I am a passing phase. It's not easy (being green - especially now, and yes, I use plastic water bottles, but thirty people on one bus - how many emissions are we saving the planet by carpooling across North America?) Anyway, it's not easy living this life. Almost every night a new house, a new family, a new set of names, a new bed, a new bathroom, and a new set of stairs.
Stairs. How bizarre that I notice the stairs. I'm one of those people that counts steps. Does that make me OCD? Perhaps. At home there are thirteen steps, a set of eight, a landing, then five more. And as I walked up the stairs at my host family today, arriving after a lovely day off - I carried my bag up to my room for three nights - and I didn't count eight and five. And as I counted I thought to myself, "This is something I always did at home. Got home from work, brought my bag up to my room, counted the stairs on my way, then went down to sit with my family." People I knew. People that when I sat around the table with, I could call by name. "Hey Miss, can you hand me the chicken?" instead of my now formal and impersonal "Excuse me Uncle, would you mind passing me the chicken?" My cordialness leaks a sense of oddity as my bag sits on a stranger's bed that's wearing sheets and a duvet cover littered in large, brightly covered flowers. I miss my solid colored walls and my snow white comforter at home - the lack of patterns and visual business that cloud my head and eyes with rainbow vomit. Who thought floral print was a good idea?
I think about all this today, because I had an absolutely lovely day off with very wonderful people I know from home. Though it's been a long time since I've seen them, it was a breath of fresh air and a taste of home. I climbed into the car with them this morning and immediately felt as though I'd stepped back into my other "life" - driving through the streets of "Canandaigua" with two friends that I have looked up to greatly for as long as I can remember. It was familiar.
"Familiar" I've come to learn is a very powerful, very important word. And how nice that it's so close to "Family" - Familiar. Family is familiar. The twenty-nine other people I live with and the bus we all live on right now is the only close "familiar" that I have - and they have become to me a very special family. Here. But every now and again I wish that when I got "home" at night I'd count the same eight and five and sit down with people I've known for more than nine months. Living through each day knowing exactly where I was and where I was going to rest my head that night. Someplace familiar.
And yet each night as I lay my head down in whichever house I happen to be in, I know that God has called me here for such a time as this. Though sometimes I think I'd give just about anything to go home to the familiar, I'm not willing to give up this family. I, along with eight others, are interim parents for these beautiful children and each day is an opportunity to teach and train them in the way they should go. The craving I have for a life of non-nomadic "normalcy" is significantly dwarfed by the craving I have to be with these people, these children: this family.
And so I pray, "Right now, Lord, here I am, for such a time as this."
