Wednesday, November 18, 2009

The Language of Reverse Culture Shock

With the sound of violins and techno beats bursting through the open windows, I drove home drowning out each passing thought, every few beats I snuck a quick peek at the night sky, letting the summer air ripple through my hair. I drove passed my street, and then the next, and the next. I didn’t want to go home, I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts; I still hadn’t felt anything since returning to the states, and the numbing sensation had begun to take its toll on me. But gas costs money, money I neither had nor wanted to waste, so uncharacteristic as it may be, logic took to steering the wheel and drove me home.
Thirty minutes later and I found myself kneeling on the lukewarm pavement of my backyard, bowing down before the King of Kings, robed in the blanket of stars overhead. My heart sat stone cold, but the beauty of creation spilt over the image of our 4,000 square foot home that my eyes couldn’t seem to reconcile with. I wanted to curl up and fall asleep outside, I could see God outside, I desperately grasped to feel His gentle touch in the soft breeze, to know His embrace in the summer night air that warmly kissed my skin, and to stand in awe of His vastness that the multitude of stars proclaimed. Inside the house I got lost, lost inside my big brass bed and walk-in closet, lost in the many distractions that only forced the numbness down deeper. I choked back a short and passing sob, and slowly stretched out till I lay face down against the cement. Not knowing how to physically humble myself futher, I continued to press my face into the gray beneath me.
I could feel the warmth left over from the long since set sun and I couldn’t help but realize that it was now breaking through the dawn on the other side of the globe. I had set foot on the plane in the middle of winter and had hours later stepped out into a California summer, how strange the grey below felt, its heat continuing to engulf me. My mind began to race with incomplete prayers, “Oh God, speak to me, oh God I didn’t leave you behind in Kenya, where are you, this house can’t possibly be mine, I can’t go back inside, why do I feel safer outside then behind the locked doors of my house, Lord please, would you tell them good morning, would you wake them with a memory of our loving embrace, Jesus would you tell me what to say to those around me, Jesus I don’t understand, I can’t stare at the walls around me much longer.” I had no idea what I was saying, I began to quietly weep, I knew each tear could communicate better than my frantic words. Thank God He speaks more than one language…

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