Memories are funny, the way our brains are wired and the way memories catch you off guard. That’s why I was not expecting a wee bit of mud to cause a cascade of emotions.
We went hiking last weekend at a local nature park, and it was an absolutely lovely day. It’s been way cooler than normal the last couple of days, so it was perfect to be outside. We walked across the huge, red, historic bridge, Clark threw some rocks, and we watched the fish swim below us. We swatted mosquitoes, saw tadpoles in a puddle, collected an owl feather, and even carried around a lady beetle for a bit. One of the highlights was finding the honeybee observation hive, where we could watch thousands of bees working in their hive on the other side of the window. I was sucking in the smells of summer…the grass, the clover, the warmth…walking on a bit ahead when I noticed it.
Just there, right off the trail, was a puddle of dried mud. Because it had obviously dried quickly, the top layer of dirt had cracked. Seeing that bit of dried, cracked mud brought an unexpected rush of memories back. Suddenly, I remembered so clearly standing in Nasir, South Sudan, taking a picture of my feet on the expanse of dried, cracked Black Cotton soil. I remembered the smells of the earth, the livestock, the fires burning, and even the soap that so many of our South Sudanese friends used. I remembered the feeling of being home in such a foreign land; remembered the hopes and dreams I had for Nasir.
The pain of loss does, in fact, dull over time; however, it never truly goes away. Losing Nasir as we did was so much like losing a loved one. We’d spent years praying about and for Nasir, preparing for our move, and loving the people there. We’d moved, struggled, and found our footing, able to envision years to come of bringing our babies home to our little cinder block house, of conversing with friends and neighbors in Nuer, of walking alongside others toward Jesus.
Today, as I stood beside that little dried puddle, I felt the pang of longing. Longing for a home that was only mine for a short time. Longing for friends to whom I never got to say a proper goodbye, some lost, all scattered. Longing for a future that was never meant to be.
And yet even as I stood there, Clark came running up, got a rock stuck in his sandal, and we moved on. It was brief–the rush of memories, the hesitation beside the dried bit of mud. But it was enough. It was enough to remind me that no matter where we live in the world, we serve a God who holds it all in His hand. It was also enough to remind me that this earth is not our home–not Nasir, not Indiana, not Tonj, not Texas. We are merely passing through. It was enough to remind me that we also need to live ready to go whenever He calls, because our life is a journey toward Him.
And what a beautiful journey it is.
