Living for the Other...

Back in Lhasa, my first 24 hours:

The man with cotton shorts pulled up over his belly with t-shirt tucked
in. The bus driver who passes everyone in the turn lane by driving into
oncoming traffic. The way entire streets shut down for some runners to
go through. The bag of mixed fruit forced on me by the grocery store
family. A heaping plate of noodles. The self resentment at still not
being able to speak Chinese or Tibetan with any fluency. The long low
damp clouds of the morning. The schedule of only 80 students rather than
my expected 160. The relief in a dear friends voice whom I get to see
for the first time in a month. The smiles around the office as I make my
first entry of the year. The long yellowed fingernails of the bus
cashier. The labored breaths of my first restless night. The dizziness
induced from a mere two story climb up some stairs. The lurking feeling
that something has changed and the inability to describe what that is.
The slip stumble out of bed to the cold realization that I am indeed
back. Loneliness. That smell that I spent all summer trying to forget.

24 hours of another life like a tidal wave upon the shores of my summer.

Yet in the high tide of foreignness I am blessed by the recognition of
the familiar. I have seen those laugh lines before. I know that this
ride costs two kuai. I can bargain for that new kettle with dexterity. I
have blinked hard in this sunlight more than once. That it all is still
strange to me is indeed true, that it is unexpected... not true any more.

The slow soft lapping of the familiar granting peace and rest on shores
of the totally unknown. The sands have shifted, but the ebb and flow
remains.

I have been here before...

Ten.
Arrival complete with culture shocks like ripples through my soul. Everything familiar embroidered with confusion, the cobwebs of foreignness cling to the corners of everything that was my world for twenty-three years. Is that an entire isle of different breakfast cereals? Yes friend, this is America.

Nine.
The jitters of over-stimulation: too many things to listen to, hear, read, watch, understand, evidenced in the tell-tale sign of shaky hands.

Eight.
Tensions unwinding like so many balls of yarn on the floor and the massage of time with friends willing to get their hands into my stringy mess though I am only unraveling.

Seven.
Long forgotten acceptance found over tables in public spaces with heads bowed. Joy spills from lips which have ached to share His work from the past year. His smile, His warmth, His pride, His understanding, His provision found in the faces and company of dear friends.

Six.
Fellowship in the fullness of the depth it was intended. Courage in a note, a hug, a tear. The cross standing in the gap of the past year's brokenness and pain: a splintered reminder of what lay behind... and what lies before.

Five.
A tearing. The happy world of return fades imperceptibly into the mad scramble of depart. The lists begin and the frenzy of purchasing items in anticipation of the long year ahead is underway.

Four.
Insomnia reigns supreme. The fog of sleepless nights interrupted only by this dream of Lhasa: me in Tibetan dress pulling back all manner of curtains, tying them up, ripping them off, a mad attempt to let light in.

Three.
Turkey, mashed potatoes, butter beans, yorkshire puds, cranberry sauce, broccoli and cheese, sprouts, cabbage, corn on the cob, stuffing, and a pecan pie. A pseudo thanksgiving? No. This is the real deal, the one they celebrate in November will be the imposter due to my absence.

Two.
The strain of zippers on overstuffed bags, the heartache in invitations declined, the anxious double checking of flight details...

One.
I'm not ready. But I wasn't ready the last time either.

My only request, my most desperate plea: may He be glorified in me.