I am not usually at a loss for words, at least when it comes
to writing. Yet in the past three weeks since stepping off the Piper plane onto
the tarmac of the Lancaster Regional Airport, I’ve struggled knowing how to
articulate, even in writing, an answer to the question, “So how does it feel to
be home, Katelyn?”
It’s scary - how displaced and detached one can feel when it
comes to reconciling the changes between the environment, the experiences, the
culture, the responsibilities, and the people you were surrounded with just a
short time ago with where you find yourself presently.
In Thailand, I had a role to fill, a job description, a schedule
of responsibilities, a ministry I functioned under, a focus in what I was doing
and who I was serving. To be certain, there were definitely those moments of
unpredictability as well as the stressors of situations which never appeared in
the staff manual under “Duties of the Ladies’ Dean.” Even in all that, I still
had the encouragement and support of friends who became like family, and I felt
a sense of belonging and purpose in where God had called me. There was
something about all this which offered me more stability and security than I had
realized, until life as I knew it for the greater part of the past two years
disappeared from sight as the jet climbed higher into the inky darkness of the midnight
skies.
It wasn’t until the first Korean flight, when I was the
person in the window seat of Row 42, watching the lights of Chiang Mai until
they faded into tiny pin pricks against the black shadows of the mountains,
that this sense of aloneness and weakness overtook me. Grateful for the dimmed
lights of the cabin, I let the tears fall.
The past year had been so fulfilling. God had taught more about
His strength perfected in my nothingness, and I could testify that even in the
difficulties, He had been faithful and He had been my Rock. The year had stretched
me spiritually, emotionally, and at times, physically. Yet it had been a year so
rich in experiences, and most of all, rich in relationships.
Now, once again, I had to uproot and move on. Three years
ago, when the plane had lifted from the runway of the Chiang Mai airport and I
said good-bye to Thailand for the first time, God impressed upon me the verse
from Genesis 28:15, “Behold I am with you and will keep you…and will bring you
back to this land.”
This time, I struggled with feeling like that promise had
been given and now had been fulfilled, so this must be it. That thought stirred
an unwelcomed ache within my heart: what if this time I am leaving, never to
return?
I believe that I am supposed to be here with my family in a
community where traditions rooted in Pennsylvania German culture intersect with
the multi-racial populations of expanding cities like Lancaster or Reading. But
it is one thing to realize that this is where I am supposed to be for now, and yet
that realization does not always ease the restless longing within for dreams
that feel unfinished, visions that seem undone, and a place that is
half-a-world away while still closely residing in my heart.
It’s humbling, admitting that I don’t have it all
together. In the lyrics of Twila Paris, “Lately
I’ve been winning battles left and right, but even soldiers can get wounded in
the fight. People say that I’m amazing, strong beyond my years, but they don’t
see the enemies who lay me at His feet. And they don’t know who picks me up when
no one is around… I drop my sword and cry for just a while, ‘cause deep inside
this armor, the warrior is a child.”
The sword feels heavy right now, and I am weary of fighting enemies
that I thought had already been defeated once and for all. Re-entry is hard.
Harder than I had thought, actually. Yet it is easy for me to use the
adjustments of re-entry as a smoke screen for what lies at the root of the struggle.
Raw honesty leaves me no other option
except to confess that I know that a lot of the numbness, discouragement and
apathy that I am experiencing right now exist because I am struggling with
surrender. Over a year and a half ago, I
had signed my name on the bottom of a blank sheet of paper, as a sign of
commitment to God to say “Yes” to whatever He future plans He had for me, even before I knew what they were to be.
Today, I look at what He is writing on that page for me, and
I don’t always like it. I want to take the pen, and somehow add some fine print
at the bottom, a disclaimer or a subtle compromise to make this whole thing of “selling
out” a little more comfortable.
But.
The commitment has already been made. I don’t want to put my
hand to the plow and look back. I don’t want to regress to waving the flag of
defeat in the Enemy’s territory and give up ground that was never meant for him
to have. I don’t want to come to the end of this season of life and regret
living it out of a sense of dutiful submission rather than joyful surrender.
Perhaps I’m not as tongue-tied as I thought. Or maybe,
trying to define the struggle with words - as fragmented and imperfect as they
are - is the first hesitant step to return to that Altar of Surrender.
