Transitioning back from mission has been taxing. The first month and a half were especially emotionally grueling. It was heavy experiencing, hearing about, witnessing everything that had changed in the United States in sort of a pressure-cooker way.
All of a sudden I had immediate access to information, my parents were flipping on the news, global-political-governmental issues were brought up in casual conversations. I realized what I had known as a gigantic division in the “greater” world was seeping into my own home, into my every day relationships. And it devastated me.
How could I continue living in this charged, angry, hateful new place I’d entered? My heart longed for my Honduras bubble. Where I knew my mission was to be present, love, and serve in little ways. What was the point of my life now? To lay in bed and cry when people I deeply love fought over vaccinations or politicians or riots or the latest divisive issue that surfaced? It was too much to figure out how I fit into this new pandemic-ridden, right or wrong sided, seemingly dark place.
My little heart could barely take the weight. And at the same time there was “normal” adjusting to life again; the cold, the material stuff, the food, the technology. I would literally feel my body shut down from overstimulation in grocery stores to overwhelm in conversations to committing to a simple decision like scheduling a phone call. I knew I was physically present, but my mind would go all fuzzy and what remained was a shell of Melissa. It wasn’t good (praise God that hasn’t happened for weeks).
I was (and still am) grasping for parts of what I’d lived at the Finca, and even more, what I learned there. How do I, with my changed heart, continue on living in this small corner of Illinois? How do I fit?
I haven't got a firme answer. But one day not too long ago, I woke up with new energy. I was finally in a groove with my parents, figuring out how to live with them at 27 years old. I found a rhythm with Levi after many hard conversations and in-person adjustments, we were in step. I had a small daily routine, and the Lord even provided some dream part-time work (yeee!!).
But most importantly after two months of darkness in prayer and confusion in my heart, the most anxiety and ceaseless stress I'd ever faced, I felt the Holy Spirit moving inside my heart. And I began to feel grounded by grace once again.
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I knew once a couple months of home had passed I'd be ready for some (safe) in-person visits. And I started with my buddy who'd lived 0.41 miles away from me my entire life, Maria Leigh. The mountains (and friendship) were calling as I anxiously went westward to her new home. The minute I saw her and she handed me a vegan egg and sausage sandwich, everything I'd been carrying fell away and I didn’t have to worry about a single thing.
The week was in classic MelRia-style full of active minutes and yummy homemade food; only this time our days were literally framed by snowy Colorado mountains. Maria and I talked non-stop, sharing our hearts and making up for lost time, while her husband tagged along as our third-wheel (you know it's true Trevor). She even treated me to an outdoor mineral-hottub soak, and I felt so joyful as we watched the rising steam freeze our hair and the snow dance around our mugs of marshmellow-y hot chocolate (my heart is bursting remembering how picturesque this scene was).
We truly lived the dream that I would one day move into their spare room and we'd all effortlessly live life together.
Without knowing it, my friends served me in the slowest moments of the week: listening to their home-renovation tales, weekend adventures with the puppies, and hiccups settling into the newness. Even watching them experience a real crisis together (read: being robbed) was weirdly familiar and normal. Because I knew that in their own life-muck, no matter the level of insanity, I would always be a welcomed disruption (my word, not theirs).
They’ve been living their mountain-life since March, which funnily enough was the exact same time I recommitted to staying at the Finca through the pandemic. Although our paths, our day-to-day challenges and joys were v e r y different (not all of us can say our car window was smashed-in or have Pike’s Peak in our backyard), I know we were (and continue to be) in it together; saying yes to our personal daily crosses and finding ways to surrender the weight of the world.
Ri (and Trevor), I am so proud of you. And when we’re just hanging out in front of the fireplace watching the waters rise or conquering ‘conqueror’ or being MILLED and eating giant bowls of ice cream as it snows, I know I’ll find grounding with y’all.
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My travels wrapped up with a shortened visit to see my sister and Jon in cozy Minnesota, eh. And in true Fitzpatrick fashion, we squeezed the full twin cities tour in only 2.5 days. For the record, Juicy Lucy came out on top as my favorite MN must-experience.
Mostly though it was just good for us to have sister time. It’d been almost an entire two years (TWO YEARS) since we’d been able to sit in-person and have a cup of coffee together, just the two of us. This time it looked a lot different (read: not snuggled up on the couch or sharing sips from the same mug), but we made it work. Somehow being masked and sharing conversation while we were eating 6 feet apart didn’t much change how we jived.
Along with getting me accustomed to the freezing winter air, Megan planned in solid time with Jesus. Oh, few things make me happier than going to Mass with people I love. And we went together twice (praise God!). In my still-recovering-from-driving, groggy-morning, only-one-cup-of-coffee-in brain, I was kneeling next to my dear sister in the cold Cathedral praying for her heart when Jesus suddenly revealed to me how far the both of us had come.
He confirmed (again) through this person who’s been my model, friend, mentor, support the power of both spiritual and blood sisterhood. My sister, my biggest blessing, would walk through life with me even when she herself couldn’t and wouldn't fully understand whatever I was living. I’d been praying through the intercession of Mary to find a community of sisters since coming home, and realized in that Mass that even though it’s not always physically sitting next to me, I’ll always have it in her (and Her).
Meg (and Jon), I am infinitely blessed with your presence in my life. And when I stroll over to my Airbnb after a chilly walk on Summit Avenue and my heart wells up because for a split second I realize what it’d be like to live my dream of being your neighbor, I’m certainly grounded in Love.
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An aside: Something else my trip to Colorado reminded me of was living a materially-sustainable life. I was just getting into reusable, homemade-able, zero-waste stuff during my time in Boston when I left for mission. And funnily enough, I sorta forgot.
Watching Maria and Trevor live remotivated me in m a n y ways to think about how I want my future home to function. I wish you could get a glimpse into their cute house because it’s so good, and oh my gosh, GROUNDED. Inspiration sparked and I’ve gone as far as reading up on reusable toilet paper (I’m hoping to ease into it, mostly for Levi’s sake), but it’s got me jazzed. Clearly.
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