I’m writing on the last plane home from Mozambique, Africa. I have been intentionally putting off writing about the “bush-bush” outreach, a couple of days away that were part of our missions trip to the Iris base, out of fear.
The same fear I had going there.
If you don’t commemorate a place in time, has it happened then? You can trick your mind into believing things or forgetting things or keep it from grabbing on to the deep things wrought by experiences because they are so visceral, you don’t know if you can handle going there again, even if just in your mind, or handle processing it, or you’re afraid to.
The bush outreach is the most out of my comfort zone I have ever been. It wasn’t one thing in particular that made it so stretching, it was a hundred things cumulated to bewilder my understanding and emotions. I close myself off when inserted into uncharted territory. I suppose I subconsciously think it will keep me safe and protected but it doesn’t make me a very good traveling companion for my husband—seriously though, we were in flipping Africa, Mozambique, not Monaco or London and this, my first trip across the Big Pond. When confronted with the unfamiliar, I recoil as if faced by a swaying cobra.