In a few short weeks I will rejoin the ranks of America’s workforce. I’ve spent the better part of the last two and a half years serving as a missionary with my husband in the postage stamp sized country of Malawi, in Southern Africa.
This fall we took a quick little jaunt over to the Philippines, only to come up to a “do not enter” sign from God, which found us unexpectedly back “home” in the US.
I’ve officially lived in three continents in one calendar year, and I’d be lying if I said my head isn’t still spinning.
But here I am–one in a sea of the masses. No glamorous adventure. (Third-world missions are NOT glamorous, by the way, like, at all.) No obvious purpose. No sense of being a part of something bigger than myself. Just a regular girl, living in a basement apartment, staring at a dying Christmas tree wondering what the heck I’m doing here.