Green fields of rice, tapioca, and corn attract my gaze. I'm crowded onto the back of a local taxi and getting wet from rain while coming home with a patient from the hospital. It's nice to just sit and look at things as we go by.
In the silence, I remember that this is a time to remember. It was this time of year that I arrived in this part of the world--clueless, tired, unprepared for reality. I can still remember how it felt to walk into worship for the first time, to get into our house and not have any water, to have sticky skin all the time, to wear clothes that seemed to never dry, to sleep on something harder than my bed at home, to eat rice every day for every meal, to be surrounded by people that stare at me and think I'm different, to long for things back home--to feel like a stranger in a strange land.
And here I am in nearly the same situation. I walk into the same chapel, have sticky skin, wear clothes that take days to dry, sleep on something hard as the floor, eat rice every single meal, live among the same people, am separated from the same dear friends.
The difference? It's what I'm used to. I feel at home--in a strange land.
And I wonder . . . Should not we all be feeling out of place, longing to be with our dear One, like strangers in a strange land?
Or are we at home in a strange land?