Every hero/heroine in a book has a purpose. That, along with sometimes their surprisingly good looks and knack for pulling off the impossible, is what draws us to them. Purposes are alright in books, in magazines, in movies, where two hours of suspense resolves into an ending; happy or sad, its over. Its the monotony of the day to day living that chips away at the purpose of our lives, the wind that blows the heat into our faces for yet another hour, the washing of the dishes or the empty afternoons. You would think, living in Iraq, with purposes laid out in my heart and in writing for all to read I would wake up each morning with the light in my eyes. I do really, but it often is the sun, which comes up at 4:30am.
Its in the quiet that you come come to see yourself, often the way that you have scribbled out your life story like a child's coloring book when you aught to have given more thought to calligraphy lessons. I think I can grasp God holding the present, I'm pretty sure He has the future, but its the spilt milk that I'd like to cry over, that I refuse to let Him mop up, that entangles my heart. “I know the plans I have for you” He says, how is it that I fail to factor in that plans for the future take into consideration the past?
I have two more months here. Exactly, actually. Have I done my job? Yes. Have I loved with all I am? I'm working on it. Making memories that you won't regret begins with the most “insignificant” decisions today. What does that mean for me? Teaching with passion, taking a deep breath as I stand before a classroom, scrambling occasionally to remember grammar lessons that I had in 9th grade. Its planning a night out when I would rather hole up with tea on my couch, or shaking off a shudder of indecision before bringing up matters that will last longer than this earth.
Kurdistan is a beautiful land. I still play make believe, at my ripe old age of 25, walking uphill to teach, pretending I am a village girl off to market, or to a school to learn exciting things that day. The sun, the spices and the men whose eyes I hide from, mixed with the kisses on cheeks from friends, the call to prayer that I respond to (minus the 5:00 am edition) and the fresh bread a stone's throw away, all have come to mean home to me, more than I can realize while I am here. There are moments when the culture drives me nuts, when I must stay inside at night as a girl, appointments are routinely half an hour late and the language barrier has people coming off as domineering rather than the intended helpful, but it is home. My heart is here and how I pray that I leave something meaningful when I leave.
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