Restoration Blog: Confessions

Confessions of a practically ex-patriot American traveler ::

Part one ::

Continuing with this rare thread of emotional honesty this summer has inspired, I've taken off almost a month from writing so that I could collect my thoughts and tears and smiles and shrugs before telling ya'll the results of my return home. I've explained my summer in so many ways ranging from the intimacy of hours sitting on the couch drinking tea with best friends to brief passerbyes who ask "how was England??" while expecting a short enough answer so they can get to class in 4 minutes to my six year old nephew who kept interrupting me to impersonate English accents (Harry Potter style, naturally) to random acquaintances who unveiled that they followed this blog and now understand me in a more profound way than before.

At any rate, here I am a month down the road and back in Chicago...a woman caught between two worlds and two sets of family and friends. Like a trans-continental pineapple upside down cake. And it all has left me begging the question: what really were the effects of these past three months? And more pressingly: where do I go from here?

-- CONFESSION NUMBER ONE -- While in Nottingham, I did not miss home. Not a lick.

I always felt guilty whenever some sweet church lady would ask me what I missed most about America. The first answer on my lips would always remain in the realm of red velvet cake and ranch dressing. Don't get me wrong, I was absolutely ecstatic when my family greeted me in the airport with giant "21st birthday" and "USA" and "welcome home" balloons and took me out for REAL Mexican food. I jumped up and down like a giddy school girl when I was reunited with my best friends. I made literal shrill noises both in the middle of a St. Matthew's parking lot and the Belmont train stop as I ran up to them. But my relationships are so deep with all these people that geographical location plays no part in how much we love one another and the connection based thereof. So did I ever feel homesick while in England? The answer is simply no. Did I ever want to magically teleport the people I love across the pond to be able to frolic around the UK with me? The answer is absolutely yes.

Thus, we stumble upon one of the greatest effects I've seen played out since being home. I don't have much of a long term attachment to Louisville or Chicago. I always knew I was a wandering soul and would only crave certain locations for a few years. Now I see that it's coming time to move on from these places. They were beautiful and good to me, but that season is done. It's really as simple as that. I will adore this last year in the city with all my beloved friends and then like a proverbial fairy godmother at the end of the story *poof* the tale will have ended. And that ending's really not such a dreadful thing. Do not let anyone look down on you because you are not one of these men or women born with an innate sense of "home" and who based on where they live dive roots into the ground that go so deep they're immovable. I remember thinking kids who cried at summer camp over homesickness were a bunch of weirdos. Why was their childhood happiness dependent on home life or roots or geography?? Mine was dependent on pretty stars and canoe trips and funny songs and good sloppy joes and catching fish and giggling after quiet hours.

-- CONFESSION NUMBER TWO -- I find American white evangelicism naueseating and nowhere near the biblical concerns of the heart of God.

Oh wait....that was already in mind before I left. This summer just manifested that ideal. Fo real.

-- CONFESSION NUMBER THREE -- I have no desire to live in the United States for the rest of my life.

I'm not drinking some sort of "it's nifty to be young and in Europe" cool-aid here, my friends. I have always had a slight international obsession since the wee years of my life. Maybe some of us are born slightly out of place with our decade or country or family or religion. At least, concerning the country aspect, I don't feel compelled to live in the beautiful red, white, n blue and have a white picket fence and soccer mom SUV and garbage disposal in the sink and giant deluxe refrigerator and 2.5 children. The idea of marrying at 21 and becoming a pastor's wife and moving to safe neighborhood in Nebraska makes me queasy. I can't do it, folks. I was lying to myself for so long to have believed in that future. I was betraying the very desires God gave me that course through my blood to lead me to far away places to see Him do extraordinary things. Many will brand me selfish and naive and feminist for saying such things. But do they have an interwebs platform to several hundred readers?? NOOO! Mwahahahaha.... any-who...

-- CONFESSION NUMBER FOUR -- For the first time in years, I know who I am and am beginning to believe who God says He is.

This may be the singular greatest gift I have realized since stepping foot again on these shores. In Heathrow airport, fear welled up in my chest that all my new found hope and independence and joy and sense of self and trust in a faithful God would vanish as soon as I arrived home. It hasn't! I have tasted what is good and true and there's simply no turning back. These past two years, my identity and my view of God were wrapped up in so many other people and their influences. I used to walk on a frail ledge teetering between emotional co-dependency or body numbing depression. Even through smiles and laughter, I only held happiness in my hands because someone else told me to be happy....or gave me permission is more like it. I'm not sure if now I have a "damn the torpedoes" kind of attitude or a "don't worry be happy" kind of contentment concerning finding my identity again. Both?? Maybe I can grip the passionate firecracker and Rastafarian peacemaker in each palm.

Those are all the confessions I can supply for now. In part two of this tirade, I'll try to explore the question of where I go from here. That is the kicker isn't it? Our journey and the bravery to face the unknown ahead.