"We shall have to walk then," he said easily. "Come on, I know a shortcut."
It's that time of year. In every direction, (at least where I live), there's forests with trees decorated in every color, mellow orange pumpkins, and dried up fields of corn. The fields are covered in mist and the temperature is just refreshingly brisk. I'm tempted to say that fall is my favorite season, when only a few months ago I was saddened by the thought of empty trees and the approaching winter.
It always makes me nostalgic, like I'm living in a field of memories or waiting on an empty bench in the park. It seems that no matter what season I'm in,
that one is my favorite. Can I just say that I love all the seasons with their different temperatures and colors?
And yet, each time the seasons roll by, I find myself clinging to each one and viewing the coming season with apprehension. It seems that there's always a universal mistrust of change, we're comfortable with that which we are familiar with. Change means transition, which isn't always comfortable.
After all, fall heralds colder temperatures and raking leaves, which can be seen as troublesome to one's regular life. Yet, whenever the next season rolls around, it happens so gradually that we're surprised by the change and instead of it being an unwelcome burden, it's a pleasant change of pace. For, despite the many vivid, even dramatic changes there's something comfortable about it. There's something familiar.
That's the beauty of seasons, they're always changing time and time again, but they always retain that sense of the familiar. It's a good lesson for us to learn; no matter how many changes we undergo, we don't have to fear them. We don't have to be afraid, for despite every unknown that may come, there's always an known quality about them. We have everything we need to face the challenge ahead, we just don't realize it until the day comes.
In that vein, I should finish recounting the story above. It's taken from, perhaps, the most nerve-wracking experience I had in Africa. We had just finished visiting with our selected student's family and decided to skip lunch in order to get back before the others would start to worry about us. (Plus, they needed the food more than we did.)
In a stunning example of generosity, Emmanuel's grandmother picked for us an entire sack of peanuts, to show her gratitude for our visit. Then we started down the dirt road, in search of St. Kizito's High School. Emmanuel was about 13 years old and spoke rather poor English. The plan, originally, was to catch a boda-boda (motorcycle) ride back to the school from some of the nearby men. Unfortunately, neither of us had any money on us, (we didn't think it wise to be carrying it through the Ugandan countryside), so we had to walk.
Emmanuel guided us along several dirt paths, before taking us off the wider dirt road to a path he said was shorter. My aunt and I hadn't the slightest clue where we were, so it was with apprehension that we followed him onto this route. I'm pretty certain we were the first mzungus ever to travel that path. Finally, after a good amount of walking, I spotted the most reassuring of sights: Our Lady of Guadalupe School. We're on familiar ground, we were getting closer to home.
Home. It's funny how we thought of it like that, even though we hadn't even been there two weeks. I came to realization that home isn't just where we live or grew up. It's where we are safe, comfortable, and belong. It's where we can dwell in peace and safety. It's where we are familiar with our surroundings.
That night, I knew that wherever I went, I could always carry that sense of home and safety with me. How I looked at the school as a sign of reassurance is how we should see God.
Before we left America, we had a sendoff Mass for us, with a special blessing. In that blessing, a certain line struck me.
"May the Lord be a staff of refuge for you."
A staff of refuge.
That's what God is for us. No matter how far we travel from home, whatever the circumstance or situation, even and most especially in times of danger.
The less of our strength that we can draw upon, the more we can rely upon him, our staff of refuge. Trust me, no matter where you go, it doesn't seem a foreign land, strange and unfamiliar, because you don't have to change. You can still cling to that staff tightly. In the grand scheme of things, there's nowhere we can't feel at home, because God is the same, regardless of one's location.
As St. Therese would often say, "The world's thy ship and not thy home." We live in a foreign land, it is true, but instead of causing us discomfort, that should give us hope. It means that one day, our journeys will end, our struggles will cease, our pain will be given purpose.
It means that one day, we will find peace, comfort, understanding, safety, joy, and love. In short,
We'll be home.
