I've been wanting to write this post for quite some time now. I've
been looking for the words, trying to focus my mind and effectively express all
that I want to say. In my search for the right words, I came across this blog
post that I started back in December and never finished or published. I thought
this would be a good place to begin...
December 16, 2013
"Buckle your belt, I have a truth to share: Sometimes the only reason why I don't
pack my things and go home is because I know that God called me to be here at
this moment in time. Maybe not as shocking as you expected? Maybe my words
didn't pack enough punch. But I'm afraid to be too blunt. I'm afraid of outing
some real feelings that I intentionally keep locked away so as not to scare
anyone or paint a horrid picture of my inner self. Being an expat in a third
world country comes with its own experiences and emotions that only other
third-world country expats would understand. Only by those people would I not
be judged.
As the summer is upon us and quickly gaining speed and high
temperatures, I am more often than not experiencing those moments of "God,
I'm only here because You called me." If you read the blog, you may think
that I experience these moments a great deal more than I actually am. The reality
is: I've quite adjusted to this newer, slower,
couldn't-be-more-different-than-America way of life. Deep down, I know that if
we were ever to permanently return to the States, there would always be a part
of my heart in Madagascar. For whatever reason, I seem to only blog about the
difficult times. It's therapy for me. And as the icing, for the past year, my
life has gone from 9 months in language to just enough time to settle into the
new house to two months in Johannesburg to a newborn. I really haven't been
able to dig my heels into any kind of ministry, so basically, I'm doing what I
never wanted to do in a third world country: just living. So often I can't see
the purpose in my every day living.
You see, I was called to international missions at the age of 13.
I remember the evening as vividly as I remember anything. I was passionate
about going to the bush of Africa and sharing with those who had never heard
the name of Jesus. I imagined myself in the villages, under the shade of the
community meeting tree, sharing life and swapping stories, cooking meals and
playing with children. I never really factored in wife and mother duties. So
here I am now spending all of my days keeping house - which is an all-day,
everyday, into the night affair - and caring for a preschooler and
newborn."
This post from December marks the first outward expression (or
"confession" may be the more approriate word) of the bigger struggle
going on in my life. Based on those words above, you may think you have it
figured out, but I can debunk your assumption without you even saying the
words. I wasn't suffering from post-partum depression, I was (and am) battling
clinical depression. Just the run-of-the-mill depression exacerbated by our current
life journey.
