Planes are both the start and the end, the joy and the sadness. I’ve experienced the highest emotions I’ve ever had, all on planes. I’ve been the most scared I’ve ever been, on a plane. I’ve experienced sickness, a bit. I’ve nursed someone back to health - in the air. I’ve been excited, fearful, energetic, tired, and most recently- I’ve been torn with grief. When it came time for the coming home. It’s amazing how you can sit at home, still and quiet, looking like a normal human being that is in one place. But inside, your head is whirling, your stomach is pounding, and your memories are vividly flashing before your eyes. You are in several different places all at once, with the people you love. But then reality sinks in and you suffer the grief all over again. You’re at home now. The normal life at home is waiting for you to live it. But you’re not the same person. When you come home from a mission trip, outside you may be calm, but inside? You may be torn. Like me. I’m currently sitting here at home, all normal, but torn with a burden inside. I used to only think (or know) about myself. My little circle of friends and family perhaps. My country. My home. But I have had so many eye-opening experiences; I’ve seen tragedies with my own eyes. I used to read books to know about them, but now I have seen them. I have never seen so much pain or sadness or grief with my very own eyes. I had never stood on top of a mountain of trash before, with flies buzzing around my face and the smell choking me, serving hot soup to these real life people who live in the dump. And now I have. With my very own feet I’ve walked down the hallways of a third world hospital in training, with stretchers flooding the hallways and children with cancer in the doors behind. I’ve met the kids with this reality. I’ve feebly taught them “Jesus Loves Me” in Spanish, and watched the kids sing along through their masks. I’ve watched the parents of even worse off children sob and cry out to God to heal them, even if they don’t know Him. I’ve seen sickness like I never have before. I’ve seen pain and sorrow. And I’ve seen these same people, in these terrible conditions, smile and laugh and joke and thank. A man living in the dump shared his small portion of soup with his wife. A boy in the children’s hospital joked with his dad. The nurses at the hospital thanked us over and over just for bringing them pencils. A young man at the special needs orphanage asked me to push his wheelchair and was so happy when we colored with him. The people were so caring, friendly, and open. I’ve forever been changed by it. When I first got home, almost two weeks ago, I could not write about it. I didn’t want to put down these memories on a page because I wanted to relive it all in my brain. I don’t want to put words on a page because it wouldn’t seem real anymore. But the memories are fading, and my reliving is stuck in my brain so I supposed I should get it out someday. Now I have finally worked up the courage to record some of my thoughts. It’s been a long two weeks. When I got on the plane to come home, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. A weight of grief was sagging down my energy, my air, and my happiness. My thoughts were muddled and every memory, painful and joyful, kept flashing vividly in my brain. When I got off the first plane, I was with my close friends who understood, and we mourned together over our leaving. But I returned home alone. Every time I closed my eyes, I would see faces and hear voices and feel like I was supposed to be there back in the land that I loved. (I promise I’m not going crazy! Wait, maybe I am.) I went inside my house, and my heart sank even further. No one could understand the things I had been through. I was so used to adrenaline, having a schedule, living with amazing missionaries, having constant companions of joy, and together serving with our hearts and hands. Living in the moment. Worshiping with the Honduran people. Every single second was full - with good or maybe bad or hilarious or crazy. And now I was empty. Basically a week and a half later, I’m sitting on the floor still shocked that we have this soft plushy carpet. (Not used to that.) Even now I feel like I’m still a part of the Honduras world. But it’s not as vivid now. Every new day I dread because it takes me farther and farther away from the Honduras memories. They fade and muddle more every moment. Every once in a while though, I will randomly relive a bunch of memories. It has been hard to process it all, but I think that writing them down will help. These long days at home have been overwhelming and painful, but I am getting my old sea legs back a moment at a time. I am learning to put a smile on my face. I figured out I can still drive. I spent a whole day without technology and played every song on the piano that I knew straight through. I’ve been having a lot of quiet time, and it gets easier every time to stay still. In Honduras, I learned to live in the moment. But when I got home it seemed there weren’t any moments left to live. No one to live with. But by praying and thinking a lot about it, it has been easier to process. The days are still hard at home, but I treasure the memories I get to think about. And who knows, I might go back someday to be a missionary. Somewhere anyway. Honduras always will hold a special place in my heart. Someday, soon probably, I’ll move on even more, accept my home here, and use the lessons I learned there in my real life. Of course, I’m still depressed about it and my life feels like it has ended. But perhaps, and maybe this isn’t so far off, it’s just the beginning. Sincerely, A Future Missionary. P.S. I miss Honduras.
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about the authorAs a 21 year old aspiring teacher, Karissa loves to write, travel, play piano, and read. Many creative things have her heart. archives
November 2021
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