My eyes squinted and my hands naturally formed a shield to protect my face from the unfamiliar rays that the sun emitted. After spending two entire days in airports, my senses had to readjust to the outside world. As if perfectly timed, however, as soon as my sight was readjusted, a giant, blue, all to familiar vehicle approached where I was standing. Out of habit, I nearly made my way to the left side of the automobile to occupy a seated position on the passenger side, but quickly reminded myself that I was “back to reality.” The shining faces of my beloved parents and siblings greeted me warmly, yet I felt like I was only observing. I still felt like I was in Kenya, in my loved surroundings, in the land where my heart was left. As happy as I was to see my dear kin after three month’s time, my whole being longed to be back in the country I had just left.
I’ll admit, it has been a little bit difficult readjusting to what I labeled as “home” just a few months prior to this date. I still expect to walk outside and see Kenyans working in their shops, cars being driven on the left side of the road, and beautiful little faces approaching me and smiling as they ask, “How are YOU!” I am nearly flabbergasted when I see herds upon herds of wazungu walking the streets of the small, southern Illinois towns. I catch myself saying things in Kiswahili every once in a while in response to questions or comments. I still expect my dear missionary friend to greet me each morning with a “Good morning, Bekah the Great!” as I rise out of bed. I can still hear the little voices of my compound calling out, “Bay-kah! Help me a sweet!” as I look out the window of the house of my biological parents. I still feel as if I can walk a few steps to the shop my friend manages and share about our lives with one another as I purchase a bottle of water or some cell phone credit. I so longingly desire to jump up the beautifully awkward steps that lead to my school and church and stroll into the staffroom to find myself amidst the company of such wonderful souls who have dedicated their careers to teaching children. I wish with all of my heart that I could walk the length of the school building to my old classroom and hear whispers as I approach the door followed by several of my pupils jumping up and shouting, “Ni hao!”
I feel like I will wake up from this dream any moment and return to that reality. But it hasn’t happened.
And it won’t happen.
Though my heart, my life, my being is in Kenya with my pupils and sweet friends, my body is back with my family, back with my familiarities. Don’t get me wrong; I adore my parents and my siblings. But I found love in Kenya, a love so great that my entire being longs to be there.
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It’s taken quite some time to compose my thoughts on being back. Being in the United States, the country that claims my residency, seems so surreal. I honestly do think that I am dreaming the majority of the time. I expect to wake up, to greet my Kenyan family members, to go to school to teach, and to spend my Sundays with that church family. But that’s not the case anymore. I’m trying so hard to fit into the culture that I called mine for the past nineteen years, but the new culture that stole my heart has shaped me so greatly.
I love being back, seeing my family, catching up with my friends, and enjoying my time at my university. But when my only company is my brain, I often get lost in thought. I calculate the current time in Kericho and think about the activities happening there. I often imagine myself joining in with their splendors. I get so lost in thought that it becomes difficult to pull myself away and get back to this reality. It’s enduring to focus on a task at hand without drifting off into the “what ifs” for a long period of time.
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“If ‘home is where the heart is,’ then my home is not in the United States. It’s not at camp, not at my school, and not even with my family. My home is in Kenya. Before I left, some of my friends told me, ‘We can’t wait for you to come home!’ I’ve lived in the U.S. for a bit less than nineteen years. I’ve lived at my school for a bit less than two years. But neither of those living areas have ever had the feeling of ‘home’ that Kenya has offered.
“This reminds me, though, that my true home is not in the United States. In fact, it’s not even in Kenya. My home is not of this world; it’s in heaven with my Father. As much as I anticipate returning to Kenya to live with the people I so dearly love, I am even more excited to walk down the streets of gold for the first time. I can’t wait for the day that I receive a gentle squeeze on the shoulder and feel the breath of a mighty voice as it so peacefully whispers into my unworthy ear, ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant! Welcome home.’ When I see God smile, I’ll no longer have any doubts of where my home is. I’ll no longer worry about tearing my life in two so that I may dedicate half of my time to my family and friends and the other half to my pupils and loved ones on the other side of the world. Because when God welcomes me for the first time and calls me by name, I’ll know. I’ll know exactly where I belong, exactly where my home is. And I truly can’t wait for that day to come.”
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Many of you are probably expecting this, so I’ll get it out in the open: I’m planning on returning to this land that I fell in love with two years ago. I’m not certain when or how; all I know is that I can’t wait for that arrival.
With that being said, Kenya take me back to Africa?
Living, loving, and longing,
Bekah
