I made a trip to my adult growing-up years: Boston. Not only was it long overdue to see my friends turned family, it was time for a change of scenery. I haven’t written in a while. Mostly because I’ve been blocked by transition pains and I constantly feel like I’m blaming my moody emotional state on Honduras. I didn’t want to complain or “woe-is-me” it on paper, so I stopped writing. But I think it’s time to jump back in. ———— Now more than ever I can feel the difference inside me, the changes of my heart. These past two years altered life dramatically. And not just for little ole missionary Melissa, but for the entire world. My friends’ lives are different. Their focus has adjusted. Their living situations have adapted. Their goals have shifted. I didn’t waltz back into Boston where things left off when I squeezed my people goodbye. Noooo. Life moved forward and change swooped in. But the change I felt was good. I could see that the sticky growing pains in our time apart n
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