Oh The People You Will Meet

Hey Y'all. So I've been waiting to post this because of internet struggles but here's my two cents from my travel day a couple days ago. I've had the opportunity to reunite and sing with some of my favorite people this week but this interaction really set the stage for an amazing week :)

I woke up this morning, at 4:30 nonetheless, thinking that it I was just going to have another travel day. Another wait in the airport. Another ginger ale. Another bag of peanuts. My first plane experience happened in the third grade. I was so excited I could barely stand it. After the last 3 years of my life, getting on a plane has lost its "Christmas morning" feeling. Sure, I still get excited about the places I go but after multiple 36 hour travel days, 11 hour flights, and layovers that are five hours too long, plane rides have sort of lost their shine. After two years at Azusa, flights to California have become like a drive to Bellingham, piece of cake right?

I have heard so many friends and family members talk to me about the people they meet on airplanes. There are the horribly inconsiderate people that leave you squished against the window with no arm rest, and no leg room due to their oversized "personal" carry on item. There are those poor souls that venture into the abyss and bring an infant on the plane. I feel so bad for these people. It's really not their fault that their baby is screaming their head off but you still want to shove them AND the baby into the overhead compartment in order to shut them up. There are those that somehow are given the gift (or the drugs) to being able to sleep the entire flight away. Some are quiet, some are preoccupied with work or their friends. You would think that with all the flights I have been on I would have many good conversations with interesting people, but I haven't. Until today.

Now, in defense of every person I've ever sat on on a plane, I don't fault you. It's totally my fault. I don't exactly present myself as an approachable person that someone would want to strike up a conversation with when I travel (or even when I'm not traveling I guess). It's hard to crack my shell! Today, after saying a beautiful but emotional goodbye to my parents, I got on the small plane that would take me to Portland and eventually on to California. I looked at my boarding pass and my seat number was 9A. Huzzah, a window seat, or so I thought. I got to the ninth row and there was an older woman sitting in my seat. I seriously considered saying something and claiming my rightful seat but in my head I just said "meh" and sat down. I had my headphones around my neck and was planning on putting them on and getting lost in some music or maybe falling asleep but then I heard a voice say, "I'm so tired." Yeah, lady we all are. But,  I decided to engage. I responded, "yeah, getting out of bed this morning was a real struggle." She laughed and started talking to me about her vacation that she was embarking on. She is 67 years old. Her longtime friend and roommate from college had called her and told her that she needed a vacation. So her and her two friends from college were headed down to Mexico for some much needed R&R. Boy, do I hope I get to do this someday. She told me about her family, her daughters and her grandchildren and her husband that had passed away. She told me about her mission work in the Philippines and we bonded over our mutual love for choral singing and choral music. She told me about her husband's illness and how, even through his illness, he wanted to do ministry so they would go together to Costco (if it was the Bellingham one, the Lord has a special place in heaven for her) or Fred Meyer and get in the longest line that they could find and start conversations with the people in front of them. They just couldn't live without doing some sort of work for the Lord. She told me about her daughters struggles with men and how difficult it is to find a selfless, giving, Christian husband these days. She started telling me a story from her young adulthood and immediately I started laughing in my head. This woman's life sounds like mine. The more the story progressed the more I realized that the things she had been through in her life were a mirror image of the circumstances in my life.  Me, being me, took the story and applied it to my life, even before she finished and I got so excited because I thought I knew exactly how her story was going to end and it was going to give me so much hope for me, but it didn't end the way I hoped. What I got was perspective. I felt so guilty knowing that the same feelings and pain she had been through was something that I could have possibly given to others. I didn't like this story. There was forgiveness and she found the world's happiness, but it wasn't the way I thought, or the way she thought I suspected. She had to wrestle with God, and wrestle with her own anger. She had to apologize to those she never thought she should ever have to answer to for actions that seemed only natural. 

As she basically spoke my own life to me I started to cry, right there on the plane with a woman who didn't even know my name. She looked at me and said "I knew the second you sat down, the look on your face, that you have things." She was right of course. She told me that as she was leaving for this trip she was talking to Grant Fishbook, her pastor at Christ the King in Bellingham, and she told him, I'm going to sit next to someone and share because I feel like God is going to use what I have to say. Again, she was right. after she told me her story she started talking about life's circumstances. I learned many things. 

I realized that all my life I have sat and waited for God to do something amazing with my life. I still don't doubt he will, but like I did with this story, I have always jumped to conclusions. I think I have what God is doing figured out and I get over excited only to have my hopes dashed. This leaves me with questions. As I got on the plane this morning I was listening to Steven Curtis Chapman's song "Questions". The first verse of this song says "Who are you God? For you are turning out to be so much different than I imagined. And where are you God? For I'm finding life to be so much harder than I planned." I think the hardest thing about the things I've been through are not the circumstances in themselves. People go through these things all the time. I'm not unique and these situations really aren't the end of the world. The hardest part is that I have built up such an expectation for myself, the people around me, and the things I do, that when it all goes to shit, I'm left standing there baffled to try and pick up my the pieces. I have such a big heart and when it gets broken my whole world is rocked. What I don't realize is that the Lord is so much different than what I try to make him, and I'm a whole lot different than who I think I am. I'm still figuring out myself and I learn new things every day. I came to the realization that I need to find the deepest part of me. I have the surface sure figured out. I know my brain like the back of my hand, how I think, how I reason. But do I really know? Or have I stereotyped myself just like I do everyone else. Do I really know the deepest part of myself? The insecurities I have, the longings I have, the things I believe in, where my actions come from? And infinitely more important, I have realized that I need to send myself on a journey to the deepest part of God. I know the surface. I know the stories. I know more than the stories. I have a relationship. I know my faith is moving and real. But the thing I can't figure out is if I know my God. The answer of course is no and as Christians if God is what he says he is, we will NEVER find the deepest part of God. The deepest part of his love, the deepest part of his justice, the deepest part of his compassion and grace. All along I know that my deepest part is calling out to His because His deepest part is the only place that can fully contain mine. This body can't contain or sort out my deepest longings. But He can. 

A few songs later on Mr. Chapman's album a chorus says "He knows the way to wherever you are. He knows the way to the depths of your heart. He knows the way cuz he's already been to where you're going. Jesus will meet you where you are." Jesus has been to the depths of me and back again. He's been there and taken notes and, throughout my life, he has and will continue to meet me where I am in to see that my paths are directed to the deepest part of myself and more importantly the deepest part of Him. 

I left this flight with so much hope. So much hope for my puny circumstances that I glorify in my head. So much hope for my next 4 months. So much hope for the journey I am on, and so much hope for the places I am going and the people I will meet. The Lord knew I needed a good dose of hope to kick start my travels and that dose came in the form of Sally Stump. Thank you Sally, who knew your lack of sleep would start such a wonderful conversation. 

Marilyn Gross

Mama. Mommy. Mom. Mother. Marilyn. My best friend.

These are the stages I’ve been through with my mom. They seem simple. All terms used to describe a well known relationship. But each one is so complex and so tailored to every stage of life I’ve been through. Each word I have used to describe or call out to my mother has been met with a response. One that has taught me so much of what I need to know in this world. These responses haven’t always been what I wanted or maybe the most perfect, but they have been what I have needed. People can say as they grow up that they no longer need people. I find this to be horribly ignorant and extremely naïve. I’ve found that the more independent I become, the more I need people. And boy, do I need my mom. Before I go into details about these wonderful terms of endearment I have used for this woman, let me tell you a little bit about my mom.

The first time you take a look at Marilyn Gross, you have to take a second look. There’s so much of her that you want to look at. First of all, she is a regulation hottie. She looks like she could walk straight out of a magazine. My mom is so beautiful it makes me sick. She’s perfect. She has blonde hair (it’s not real but.. shhhhh) the most striking green eyes, and a dazzling smile that lights up any room she’s in. If you get close enough, you touch her sun-tanned skin and it’s like silk. Sure, there are a few wrinkles and a few sunspots, but to be honest, these are the things I find the most beautiful about my mom. When I look at these sunspots I see years and years of family vacation time. I see hundreds of thousands of beloved memories and each dollar that was spent on quality time rather than clothes or jewelry or gifts.  When I look at the eye creases I see smiles, smiles that met me at the door when I came home from practices, smiles that I found in huge crowds to give me that boost of confidence. Sometimes I see a wrinkle on her forehead and I remember that her journey of motherhood hasn’t always been fun and games. She has cried for her children, she has bled for her children, she has lost for her children, she has fought for her children. But most of all I look at her hands and her knees and I see that she has done the one thing that a mother can do no matter what happens in life, no matter what bullets come your way. The one thing that, even if she wasn’t the most beautiful woman I have seen, would make her the greatest treasure. My mother has prayed for her children. Faithfully. Every day. Let me tell you that that has not gone unnoticed.

The first word I used for my mother was probably “Mama”. This word at the time held so much significance. It meant that a small part of my baby brain recognized this woman to be my comfort, my provider. My mother. My mom loved me the moment I came out. I look back at pictures and wonder how she has such a look of love on her face when all I was was a purplish screaming ball. I don’t know if Ma-ma was my first word but I’m guessing if it wasn’t, none of the other words mattered.  Soon after, my term of endearment evolved to the beloved “mommy”. This was when my mom knew for darn certain that I knew who she was. I wasn’t just babbling on and Ma-ma wasn’t just a couple of syllables. I think this is why that term is so special to mother’s. It reminds them of the time when their children cried when they left and couldn’t wait till church was over. What I remember most about my mom during these times is the phrase, “ you are my sunshine.” My mom would sing this song to me faithfully. I’d like to think, in my romantic mind, that my mother gave me my rays. Each time she sang it to me was like her sunny rays beating down upon me and causing me to shine them out also.

Then came “mom”. I’m sure this was one of the hardest transitions for her because it meant that her baby was getting older. She was “too cool” for that m-m-y at the end of the word. She heard me yell this word when I wasn’t allowed to go places and she heard me whine this word when I wanted something. But all along, the phrase that SHE always murmured was “you know where I am if you need me”. In my adolescent stage, I had a period of 2 or 3 years when sleep and I just could not agree. Each night I would be terrified to go to sleep because I was afraid of NOT sleeping. I think I willed myself to sleep so hard that it was actually counterproductive. Each night, no matter the night, no matter the early morning she had ahead she would say to me, “you know where I am if you need me”. And she was always there. About two hours into my war with sleep I would be staring wide awake at my ceiling and that phrase would echo in my head. I would make my way upstairs and tiptoe into her room. I’d stand over the bed and sometimes I would shake her awake. She would come downstairs and crawl into bed with me or put a tape on or sing to me until I fell asleep. But sometimes, I would just stand there over the bed and look at her beautiful face as she slept. Any nightmare I had would pass, and I would tiptoe downstairs again and fall asleep. 

I think the term Mother was probably the term she hated the most. I used this term when I was angry and, there were times when I was definitely angry with her. I didn’t like her rules, she didn’t like the color of my hair. For a couple of years there, my mom and I were distant. She didn’t see her little sunshine and I was constantly frustrated with the fact that I was changing into a woman and didn’t know how to mesh the two together. The "you know where I am if you need me" went from a comforting phrase in the night to a phrase she used for life. I didn't think I needed her, but she knew.  I think she told me that every night in the early years so that as I grew up, that phrase would be etched in my head and I would remember that she was there if I ever decided I needed her again. 

I think leaving for college gave me a new perspective of my parents, but especially my mom. She became Marilyn Gross. Not because she became even more distant or just an acquaintance but because I actually felt like I met my mom again. She was a real person. Not just someone to cook my meals, listen to me cry, and take care of the things I needed. I met her as a friend. I met her as a person that I WANTED to call and tell about my day, or laugh with about something. I feel like I could tell my mom anything. I can swear with my mom and she won’t say watch your mouth or slap my hand. I can talk about unmentionables with her without feeling awkward. I can ask her the hard questions that I always thought would make her doubt me.  This relationship has melted into the one I have now with my best friend. She’s my mom. I’ve learned that best friends come and go. Sometimes they’ve betrayed me. Sometimes they have frustrated me. Sometimes they talk about me. Sometimes they aren’t there for me when I need them most.  Sometimes they lead me down paths I shouldn’t go. Sometimes they forget to text or call or communicate and sometimes I do all of those things. But the one person who has NEVER in my life failed at being a best friend is my mom.  She calls me out when I need it. She supports me in everything I pursue. She loves me unconditionally.

I don’t know what I would do without my mother. Saying goodbye to her and my dad (let me tell you, I could write a book about that guy also!), the ones who have faithfully picked me LITERALLY up off of the ground every time I think I can’t go any farther, will be the hardest goodbye to say.  But the greatest thing is that I know for certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, my parents will never walk away. They will never give up on me. They will never be content to let me go. And, no matter what happens in South Africa, what trouble I get into, how I change, what I learn, and who I am friends with, they will be waiting. They will want to know every detail, look at every picture, and know every person I make contact with. They want to be a part of my life, a life that I owe completely to them. J

Let the Madness Begin.

Packing.

For any of you that know me or have travelled with me, you know that packing is the biggest four-letter word I have in my vocabulary. I HATE packing. It sucks. It sucks because I am horrible at it. I usually only like to do things I know that at some point I can succeed at, and packing is not one of these things. I've tried making lists. I've tried having others make lists. I've tried closing my eyes opening a drawer, and hoping I have clean underwear somewhere in the suitcase. Nothing works for me. I forget the most practical things. I overpack. If you talked to my mom she would tell you that packing is quite the ordeal with me. There's weeping, yelling, throwing, gnashing of teeth. If you want to see the ugliest side of me, ask me to pack for a week long vacation. If you want worse, ask me to pack for a weekend. The shorter the time frame, the less I can justify that extra man-sweater or pair of jeans. I've had my fair fight with packing over the years and I'd like to think I've gotten better. I got through Europe for a month.. twice. Not to mention the second time I had to pack for two completely different climates. I've perfected the yearly mexico trip, and let's be real, when I pack for college I just pretty much throw all I can into Sirena (my little blue Chevy named after Homer's Sirens in the Odyssey. She lures people in with her color changing abilities). But this, this is a whole new ball game. 4 months. This isn't California. I don't have a two door car with a trunk. I have a 50 pound suitcase. I'm now breaking out into hives, pimples, and I'm perspiring. 

So I started packing today. And it went as well as to be expected. I mean, I only cried 3 times. Little victories yeah? Phase 1 is in effect: Go through my closet and take out anything I MIGHT want to take. Phase 2 will happen in the next couple of days: Go through these piles and turn these mountains into mole hills. Consolidate! Phase 3 is everything else. I go through every drawer every nook of my room and possibly my house trying to think of ANYTHING I might need in my time away. Then, and only then, comes the task of fitting everything in luggage. This time has actually been less stressful. Over the last two weeks in my packing for the move I have gotten rid of over half of my closet. I'm so proud. I also don't feel as bad about getting rid of things that I only spent $2 on (thank God for Goodwill am I right?) There are basically three piles it could go on South Africa, Mexico, or Milton house. If I don't need it for any of these, its garage sale or dump!

For those of you that have REALLY gotten to know me, you this anxiety packing has one source: my things. This sounds simple but it really isn't. I have to have my things. All of them. With me. Or I will freak out. It's a little (okay a lot) obsessive compulsive. But it's important! In order for a place to feel like home, I have to have my things. Even the dumb little things. I have to know that they are with me and safe! Someday I'll be in therapy for these things I swear. Until then, I get to have my heart rate go through the roof every time I pull out a suitcase. 

Anyway, I'm hoping that the next couple of days won't drive me to insanity (I'm already doing that and I don't need any more than exercise insanity). I know I'm going to overpack but I'm just fully prepared to accept it. Hopefully everyone else is too. 

Stay tuned for a serious post in the near future. No doubt I'll have some thoughts about saying goodbye but for now, that's my rant on packing. 

Welcome to My South Africa Semester Blog

Okay so here's the deal. I've never done a personal blog or shared my musings with anyone so this is one giant experiment. I'll start by giving a huge shout out to my mom, because she's probably the only one that will faithfully look at this and actually care what it says, not because I'll be writing anything interesting, but because it'll be her indication that I am actually alive and haven't been carried off and sold. Let me just say, Dan Gross is no Liam Neeson but he "will find you, and he will kill you" and then he'll find some way to fix you with his tool belt. Secondly, I'll segue into an apology. When I write I tend to get carried away. I guarantee you'll probably get a lot more information than you want or care to know. My mind is a giant cesspool. I deal with it every day, be thankful you only have to deal with it on this blog and at any point YOU can get out of it. I can't. Anyway, hopefully I'll look back one day at this and smile, maybe laugh, maybe cry, and maybe get a little angry at all the typos and grammatical errors I find but that's beside the point.

As I sit here, I'm about 3 weeks from my departure into the unknown. September 4 is the date and it's coming way too fast. Between weddings, hanging with the few friends that I actually care to talk to from high school, catching some UV rays in Osoyoos, B.C. on our annual family vacation, watching some true blue Lynden sport at the demo derby,  and dealing with impossible neighbors, I haven't really had time to get excited. And that doesn't even take into account the "distraction" of the incredible summer I have had so far. I have been around the world and back again. Three weeks in the Southern states eating barbecue and ministering with the University Choir and Orchestra, competing and WINNING an international world choir competition with some of my closest friends in Germany and Austria with the APU Chamber Singers, and doing ministry in Phuket, Thailand with Full Sail Ministries has pretty much kept me living out of a suitcase the last 3 months (this is starting to sound like a Christmas card). Well, I'm about to do it again folks. 4 months in South Africa will be the longest I have spent away from home and family. It's weird for me to think about the fact that I won't be home for Thanksgiving this year, or my 21st birthday but I guess I can't complain. My life has been so full of amazing opportunities to see the world and experience culture. I thought that my quest to Europe with my sister after my senior year would quench the incredible thirst I had for more of this world but, in fact, all it's done is fuel it more. Every time I go, I come back wanting more of the world, more of my God, and more of myself. I am truly a blessed person, and I sincerely hope that I never forget it, so, future me, YOU ARE BLESSED and God has had you in his hand. Read it again if you have to.

Let's see, how did I get to this point? Well, since the 8th grade I've had this sort of creepy fascination with studying abroad. I think before I even knew I wanted to go to college (not that my parents would have let me sit THAT one out although being a music major I might as well not have gone since all I'll be doing is eating ramen anyway right?) I knew I wanted to study abroad. So,when two days into my freshman orientation at Azusa Pacific University, I got an email saying "have you thought about studying abroad?" I knew I was at the right place. I hadn't thought about my major, my books, my friends, or how I was going to get to west campus on the first day of school, but I sure had thought about studying abroad. Somehow I knew God had a plan for me to go. I'm not entirely sure why South Africa, I'll be honest. Maybe it's just a new continent to explore, but I've had that flag posted on my bulletin board for the last 2 years and I've been waiting for the right time. I'm still not sure why He chose Fall 2013. I had the opportunity to go last spring and to be honest, looking back, it would have been much more convenient with my schedule. Over this last semester I finally chose a major, I finally was settled with solid friends, I finally pulled my head out of my butt and now He's sending me away. But maybe that's why? Lord knows I needed to figure out how to pull my eye balls from the shoes people are wearing and the cracks on the sidewalk up to their eyes and actually be able to function while saying hello. Maybe someday I'll be approachable. I doubt it, but a girl can hope, right? I can't help but shake my finger and say "good one God, you knew."

I think what it comes down to is the idea that the Lord has been systematically destroying my perception of home in the last two years. That sounds utterly horrible reading it back but, let me explain. All my life I've been hungry. Hungry for change, hungry for experience, hungry for life (and hungry for chocolate). All this time though, I've known I would always have a home to come back to. I was one of those students that waited till the May 9 deadline to decide what college to go to. I got to that date and basically said, okay, what school is going to get me the farthest from Lynden? Not because I wanted to leave my family, or because my life was tragically difficult, or even because I haven't always been a fan of 300 days of rain a year, but because I was hungry for more. I know any college experience would have been completely different than my Lynden life but, 18-year-old me said, "I need to leave this state". So APU it was. Surprisingly, I had a lot of anxiety leaving home. I was worried about my friends, and my family forgetting me, and my boyfriend that I was leaving in Washington, but I packed my bags and flew the nest. When I started school, after I got over the incredibly difficult task of making friends and fitting in (thats a whole other entry let me tell you), there was always this confusing and somewhat disconcerting war going on in my heart. I knew my family was in Washington, but Azusa was starting to feel like home. When I would visit Washington I was "going home" but somewhere on the 2 1/2 hour flight back to LA I would start to get excited that I was "going home". This is when it all started. Where was home? Since then I've come to grips with the fact that, let's face it, for all intents and purposes (I've always thought that phrase was "intensive purposes" and never understood what it meant. Look at me now!) I have no home, at least that's the way it might look to most. So then I started to think, well, home is about the people. Which, in some ways is true. My family is the main thing that makes me feel like I'm home when I'm in Washington, and my friends are the main thing that make me feel like I'm home in Azusa. But what happens when THAT is taken away. I get to spend precious weeks with my family in Washington but that's not the majority of my life to be completely honest. APU is the majority of my year, so what happens when THAT sphere is ripped from under you? Well, that happened this year. My life got jumbled up, and a lot of sh*t happened (excuse the expletive please). I'll spare you the gory details but, bottom line is, I have had to rebuild my view of home and family and I suppose love in general. Or did I really just have to go back to the basics? Let's be real, family are those people that stick by you and love no matter what you do, how you mess up, or what horrible fashion choices you make (that's why that guy wearing black socks with his sandals and cutoff jeans is still my dad). They say, "I wanna love you because you're you and I think that that you is awesome." and thats it. No if's ands or buts. No tag backs. No reneges. No conditions. That's what I need in a family. That's what I do for my family, and I deserve that right back.

Anyway, after a long semester it was time for me to go home. I was only there for a month before I had to pack right back up again and leave the country. Time to leave the bed I love so much and the family that loves me no matter what, and go exploring. Who knew that when I left I would find family! For two weeks in Germany and Austria, the 36 members of the most incredible group I've ever been in were my family. Being with them felt like home. Just as I got comfortable though, I got torn from that. (I'm starting to sense a bit of a pattern here aren't you? That's why I can confidently say the Lord is trying to teach me about home. He's practically hitting me over the head with this lesson.) Straight from Vienna I was thrown into another new environment: Phuket, Thailand. From Europe to Southeast Asia was more than just time difference (which killed me by the way). I went from singing to playing, from classical music to worship music, from a place of total comfortability to a group of people I hardly knew anymore let alone felt completely comfortable with. Yet some time in that two weeks I found home. I found people to pray with, people to laugh with, people to vent to and people to sit with me on the curb and hug me while I let all my anxiety all my anger and all my sadness from losing my family out. I found these people in the most unexpected places. Flash forward two weeks and I'm back at home. Enjoying my family to the fullest. It's different now, my sister lives in Seattle and it takes me a lot longer to just crawl into her bed when I can't sleep. My brother and his amazing wife moved to Lynden,  and my parents are busy and have more to do than just sit and listen to me talk, which brings me to the next blow. WE'RE MOVING. Thats a doozie ain't it? You can't write this stuff I tell ya! Yep. All my life I've had my country home on the outskirts of Lynden to go back to. A comfy bed in a cold basement to look forward to at the end of my travels. Well not anymore folks. The Gross's are moving. The house is sold, two days ago I had to clean out my room and get rid of half of my belongings (let's be real though, there was so much junk in that room), and when I leave in a week, I'll never be back there. When I first got this news I just got really tired. I mean, granted, rough life over here, we are moving to a beautiful house on the lake complete with dock, boat house, and a beautiful view of the sunsets, but God, why are you doing this? This is my home. Can't I just have one thing in my life that stays consistent? Can't I at least know that I have a bed to go back to in a room that I've decorated myself? Can't I at least live in the comfort of that one junk drawer with notes from my 6th grade lovers and the 27 different colors of sharpies I thought I needed to start the school year with? Or that attic full of Barbie's and batons and my Polly Pocket collection? Nope, He says, that's not home.

Well okay God, WHAT IS HOME? Tell me then. I think the answer is in the single most cliché phrase I could use at this point: Home is where the heart is. Yes, I found home in that 816 Birch Bay Lynden Rd. house. But it was because I threw my heart and my soul into that place. I grew up there. I cried there. I loved there. I followed my dad around in diapers there. My heart was there. But when I left, my heart came with me to Azusa and that became home. I've loved there, I've been broken there, I've learned there. I've wandered around in almost diapers there (wait what?). I've been all over the place. 23 countries, 37 states and I've taken my whole heart to each one of these places. If there's one thing I know about myself it's that I don't half-ass anything. When I go, I go. When I put my heart into something, it's all in. Which is probably why I can confidently say that wherever I have gone, I have been home. I found home in Austria, standing on a stage in the middle of the Alps with 35 of the most beautiful people I know singing Rachmaninov as the rain fell, I found home in Thailand throwing a ball to a little boy for almost 30 min. while sweat dripped down my back from the 90% humidity. I'll find home at the Milton Street house when I get back at Christmas because my heart and the people I love will be there waiting for me. And I will find home in South Africa. So, as I start this incredible journey I have an immense hope.  This is Africa. I'm tasting the waters and in 20 days, I'll be coming home.