There are things that change us forever.
I am a marked woman.
My college roommate Kristen is here for the week, a 5'1" package of laughter and spunk. We cook, go on adventures, drink coffee (she will take hers sweet and white, please, and I say, better that than nothing...), and talk about everything that crosses our minds. Last night, we were making tacos for my family. She chops the onion with my mom's knife, tip bent off, blade still good. I brown the beef in the cast iron skillet. Oh how my family loves beef. My chicken loving self is a renegade and hippie. She asks about India. Thank you, dear friend. I remember in my heart a dozen times a day. But I need to remember out loud.
I am still confused and broken over many things of Kolkata. When I ask what Kolkata meant in my life, I am in many ways unsure. Isaiah 61, that beautiful passage that proclaimes God's kingdom as a kingdom better than we even dared to dream, comes to mind. I am still hoping and waiting for the things which come. Beauty to follow ashes. Wholeness to overwhelm brokenness. Joy to replace sorrow. What will God bring forth from those four months in the life of one girl? A girl who left Chicago O'hara last August more sure she needed to go than she had been sure of any other decision in her life? I don't know. I see a big pile of ashes. Strange. Heartwrending. "For what purpose, Lord? For what purpose?"
I dream of going back. I am scared. I am frustrated with this interim period and desperate for transformation that only His hands can complete. To be fully alive in Bolivar. This is what I yearn for, because for a reason I cannot see, I am here. I am here by His calling and by His choosing, and this matters just as much as India did. I am a pile of dark soil. Please plant Your seed in me, my God. Please place your life in the ground.