Home, sweet Seattle.

God bless America.

When I stepped off the plane into SeaTac airport on Tuesday afternoon, greeted by glorious gray drizzle, one of my travel companions turned to me and said, "Can you smell it, Megan? That's the smell of freedom and indoor plumbing."

Freedom smells good.

But it also smells intimidating. Unfamiliar. Advanced. Different than I remember.

I came home prepared for a fierce battle with reverse culture shock and re-entry struggles. I anticipate days when I sadness and anxiety will leave me crippled on the couch with no ability to function normally for that day. I am prepared to deal with difficult situations where the changes that God has made in my life come head to head with American culture and consumerism.

However, I have been unprepared for the most simple of things that I face everyday that are both intimidating and frustrating.

Things like the shower. It's strange, but I have to admit that the shower in my childhood bathroom is a bit scary! There is one knob, and trying to remember how to use it to make the warm water come out, and to come out of the shower head not the faucet, was a bit trickier than I thought it would be. And goodness, does that water come out fast! And it's everywhere. Once you're in the shower, there is no where to go to escape the fierce water pressure. The practice of continual spitting throughout showering won't be easily eradicated, either! My brain tells me the water is safe here, but my body acts otherwise.

And light switches. They are the opposite in America as they are in Nepal. My brain is trained to flip down to turn the lights on, and the many seconds it takes my brain to remind itself to try an upward motion with my hand can be embarrassing!

Driving is a whole different beast here than it is in Nepal. For the last year I have been living with few to no street rules. You bob and weave when and where you'd like, following the chaotic ebb and flow of traffic. You honk at anyone and everyone, and you have the choice of driving on the left or right side of the road, though technically the left side is the correct side. But here there are wide streets with dotted white lines that are more than suggestions, stop lights and stop signs that must be obeyed, and speeds that, in my mind, border on insane.

I am looking forward to experiencing more "America-isms" that will present themselves with time.

Readjustments will be made, however slowly, and my old normal with eventually become my new normal once again. And throughout this whole process, I can't ask enough times, in enough different ways for your prayers and patience. I will need your help to fully re-enter my passport country and it's now foreign culture.

93 pieces of my heart.

"As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you. Abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love. These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and your joy may be full." (John 15:9-11, ESV)


I don't know about you, but I like to try my hand at reasoning with God from time to time. I like to let Him know that my way would probably be better than His way. Because, after all, I know my life better, right?

I did a lot of that this last week. A lot of yelling at God. Making sure He knew how I was feeling. What I was going through. I did my fair share of crying, too. Pouring out my broken heart to the only One who can mend it. And most of the time, it felt like a futile mission.

I repeatedly told God that it was HIS fault I was here. I came to Nepal because of Him. He made me do it. I didn't even want to come at the start of it all, but I followed through with it because I could feel God calling me to this place.

During my time here, God had changed my perspective. He gave me friendships to cherish, kids to love on, ministry to do. And I fell in love. I grew attached.

And now that the time for me to leave is drawing near, I have become angry with God again. I can't tell you the number of times that I told God, "You brought me here. You caused this. It's Your fault that this hurts to much. And if You made me do it, then You need to take the pain away!"

It seemed logical to me for a split second that, if God called me here, and made me do this, it shouldn't hurt so bad. He should have protected my heart, shielded it from growing roots here.

It was easier to throw the blame on God, to have scapegoat, than to actually face what was happening to me. To deal the with situation and the emotions I was feeling.

Amid all my yelling and blaming, God reminded me of a very important word...

Free-will.

He didn't MAKE me come here. He didn't FORCE me to form friendships and love on my kids. Yes, God called me to come here and serve, but I was the one who chose to follow through with it. I was the one who chose to leave my home and forge a new one. I was the one who decided to love these kids recklessly.

So, who is to blame for the heartache, but me?

And who is to say that heartache is a bad thing?

Winnie The Pooh once said, "How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard?"

These kids and widows have absolutely stolen my heart. And now I'm leaving it here in 93 shattered pieces.

But looking back on the time God has given me to love on them, there's not one hug, one smile, one giggle, one tear, or one relationship that I would trade for the world. Let alone 1/93rd of my heart.

How lucky am I?