The hacking, wet cough echos through the house. I lay perfectly still and try to keep the bed from creaking so I can discern exactly who is making the wretched noise.
I fumble through the medicine box that we keep in the cabinet above the fish tank. 1 teaspoon of medicine fills the syringe. I shuffle back upstairs and gently rouse my red-haired girl, coaxing her to swallow.
Even in the darkness of night and the fog of my tired brain, I ask myself, "Will it be like this there too? What if I run out of meds when the kids are sick and don't have time to go to the city to get more? Is it like here where I can just run out and get more?"
Fevers plague the next day. I talk to my Mom who rushes chicken and rice soup to our aid. It warms our tummies, unclogs our noses and brings immediate relief to these nagging colds.
She won't be there. Neither will her soup.
How can I do it without her? Tears burn my eyes.
I open the package of noodles and pour them into the boiling pot. Repeat 4 more times. As the pot boils I know it won't be this easy there.
Drain the water. Add the chicken flavoring.
Nope. It will be much harder there. No Ramen noodles for an easy lunch. And sandwiches? Rarely maybe. Especially if I'm making my own bread.
It's 5:30 and Luke's on his way home already. Dinner hasn't even crossed my mind for the day. Breakfast for dinner is an easy fix. Quick. Satisfying. Easy. The frozen mist of the freezer blows in my face as I search for biscuits.
None.
I remember the book I bought at Candidate Week and grab it from the bookshelf. "I'll just make my own biscuits. Just like I'd do there. Can't be that hard, can it?"
Dang it. I don't own a sifter. Or cream of tartar.
Fine. I'll make pancakes and bacon. I grab the sack of premixed pancake mix and add water, from our tap.
"I can't use tapwater there, can I? Not for pancakes. I'd have to boil the water first. Ha! I won't even have premixed pancake mix!" I look at the recipe for pancakes in my cookbook. Yeah, that'll take more than 30 seconds to make.
Water rushes from the kitchen sink's tap. Clean, drinkable, cookable water.
here.
there.
With nearly every step of my day, I try to wrap my mind around what life will be like there, in comparison to how it is here. I can't. How do you wrap your mind around the barely known? How do I begin to understand the severity with which my world will be rocked?
It's cold outside so I make myself a chai for the ride. I grab my Bible, my Marriage study book, the keys and my bag. I kiss Luke goodbye. I drive to her house, pick up my BFF and we head to the coffee shop. Four of my Bible study girls are already waiting in our little room in the back.
I sit and soak in their presence, glad to be with my girls. 3 more walk in. We laugh. We talk about life. We understand each other. We pray.
They won't be there either.
None of it will be the same as it is here.
How will I make it? How can I go and leave this all behind?
How can I NOT go? How can I stay here knowing they are there, needing to know about Him?
Daily, often minute by minute, it's a struggle between what's here and what's there. Knowing what I'm leaving here and longing for what will happen there. Praying that He will provide the peace for what I'm leaving here and the courage to face the unknowns that live there.
And I find it not at all coincidental that the only difference between the words here and there is a cross.
here
there
Do you see that? Do you get it? Let me know when you fully grasp what that means, friends. What does that mean for you? Where is your here? Where is your there? How does the cross take you from one place to the other?
My heart aches for Africa, yearning to be in her midst and working with her people. But I mourn for what I know I'll miss. The people I love. Not the stuff or the convenience - though those things are nice.
here
there
The cross got me here. Now it's taking me there.
I fumble through the medicine box that we keep in the cabinet above the fish tank. 1 teaspoon of medicine fills the syringe. I shuffle back upstairs and gently rouse my red-haired girl, coaxing her to swallow.
Even in the darkness of night and the fog of my tired brain, I ask myself, "Will it be like this there too? What if I run out of meds when the kids are sick and don't have time to go to the city to get more? Is it like here where I can just run out and get more?"
Fevers plague the next day. I talk to my Mom who rushes chicken and rice soup to our aid. It warms our tummies, unclogs our noses and brings immediate relief to these nagging colds.
She won't be there. Neither will her soup.
How can I do it without her? Tears burn my eyes.
I open the package of noodles and pour them into the boiling pot. Repeat 4 more times. As the pot boils I know it won't be this easy there.
Drain the water. Add the chicken flavoring.
Nope. It will be much harder there. No Ramen noodles for an easy lunch. And sandwiches? Rarely maybe. Especially if I'm making my own bread.
It's 5:30 and Luke's on his way home already. Dinner hasn't even crossed my mind for the day. Breakfast for dinner is an easy fix. Quick. Satisfying. Easy. The frozen mist of the freezer blows in my face as I search for biscuits.
None.
I remember the book I bought at Candidate Week and grab it from the bookshelf. "I'll just make my own biscuits. Just like I'd do there. Can't be that hard, can it?"
Dang it. I don't own a sifter. Or cream of tartar.
Fine. I'll make pancakes and bacon. I grab the sack of premixed pancake mix and add water, from our tap.
"I can't use tapwater there, can I? Not for pancakes. I'd have to boil the water first. Ha! I won't even have premixed pancake mix!" I look at the recipe for pancakes in my cookbook. Yeah, that'll take more than 30 seconds to make.
Water rushes from the kitchen sink's tap. Clean, drinkable, cookable water.
here.
there.
With nearly every step of my day, I try to wrap my mind around what life will be like there, in comparison to how it is here. I can't. How do you wrap your mind around the barely known? How do I begin to understand the severity with which my world will be rocked?
It's cold outside so I make myself a chai for the ride. I grab my Bible, my Marriage study book, the keys and my bag. I kiss Luke goodbye. I drive to her house, pick up my BFF and we head to the coffee shop. Four of my Bible study girls are already waiting in our little room in the back.
I sit and soak in their presence, glad to be with my girls. 3 more walk in. We laugh. We talk about life. We understand each other. We pray.
They won't be there either.
None of it will be the same as it is here.
How will I make it? How can I go and leave this all behind?
How can I NOT go? How can I stay here knowing they are there, needing to know about Him?
Daily, often minute by minute, it's a struggle between what's here and what's there. Knowing what I'm leaving here and longing for what will happen there. Praying that He will provide the peace for what I'm leaving here and the courage to face the unknowns that live there.
And I find it not at all coincidental that the only difference between the words here and there is a cross.
here
there
Do you see that? Do you get it? Let me know when you fully grasp what that means, friends. What does that mean for you? Where is your here? Where is your there? How does the cross take you from one place to the other?
My heart aches for Africa, yearning to be in her midst and working with her people. But I mourn for what I know I'll miss. The people I love. Not the stuff or the convenience - though those things are nice.
here
there
The cross got me here. Now it's taking me there.