returning.

Crawling into my mosquito net, armed with my headlamp, for the first night in a month since departing Mozambique for the United States made me feel a little nostalgic… and a little sick. Stack of assorted reading materials in hand, I “shut” my net with a clothespin, lay back gingerly on the broken headboard and stared up into the corners of the netting for the unsolicited visitors that were surely buzzing around up in there somewhere, promising a torturous evening full of itching and scratching.

I did not want to be here.

I knew returning to Africa from a few wonderful weeks in California would be hard, but I never expected it to be this bad. Every fiber of my being longed to be anywhere but here, unready and unwilling to come to terms that I was already back in this life, in this alternate reality. Just one more month at home. Just one more week. Just one more day. But no, here I was. It was “late” by the standards of my Mozambican life, but the jetlag and left my internal clock completely confused, as if the hour and the minute hands were circling in opposing directions.

I want to go home.

The hint of moisture on my cheeks is the first external indicator of the torment going on inside. I am not much of a crier. But the last month has seen more than enough tears. The unwelcome evidence of my sadness slowly emerges; silent sobs that make my whole body shake. I glance at my cell phone, part of me desperately willing it to ring with a loved one’s voice on the other end, but also knowing it would be better if that did not happen, as the dam would burst and I was presently incapable of picking up the pieces.

I love Africa. And my Peace Corps experience. As I have been telling everyone for the last three weeks. So how did I end up here? What went wrong?

I glance at the haphazard pile of distractions I had laid on the bed next to me. Underneath the fitness magazine and the untouched GRE Cram Plan study book, a small journal catches my eye. I reach for it. This little book had been lying around in my American bedroom, and after a quick glance revealed that only a small portion had been written in, I threw it into my suitcase, planning to rip out the used pages and use the journal for other purposes. I open it now, and my sobs cease suddenly with a gasp of surprise and shock.

Early in high school, weighted down by the adolescent trials and tribulations that characterize this time of life, I read somewhere that to improve happiness and self-confidence, we should strive to write down at least five things we are thankful for every day. No matter how small or seemingly trivial they may be, no matter what trials we are going through… five things that we are thankful for. And here it was: my Gratitude Journal.

Flipping through the pages, I was transported back into my own life as a girl nine years ago, a stage of life so far removed from my current one that reading the scrawl (complete with several i´s dotted with hearts) felt more like illicitly trespassing in someone else’s private space than looking into my own past. The entries varied from daily to weekly to monthly, each page with its own small bullet-pointed list. The entries ranged from spiritual (“I have a relationship with an all-powerful God who loves me”) to truly important (“My parents are still together and love each other”) to truly shallow (“I looked cute today!”) to unabashedly vapid (“Well at least I'm not fat!”). Over the year, mashed in with the inane observances of my selfish fourteen/fifteen-year-old self, there were many repeats of similar themes (my family, my friends, my relationship with God). And even in my most depressed days of yore when I couldn’t believe that some people peak in high school or that popularity wasn’t everything or that I would ever get over that one huge crush (He has to be the one… maybe someday he will know my name!!!), I still found the time and emotional capacity to step back and be grateful for the blessings in my life—no matter how serious or silly they may be.

When did I stop doing this?

Lying there on my bed, huddled under a pilfered airline blanket I realize for the umpteenth time: I am incredibly lucky. I realized this at home. I am so incredibly blessed. And that doesn’t change, whether I am in California or on the other side of the world. I am so, so grateful for so many things. But principally for my loving God, my loving family, and my amazing friends. And when it comes down to it, few other things really matter.

I have been brought here for a reason and choosing to stay is my choice and no one else’s. I am grateful for this experience, I truly am. Grateful for the incredible opportunities it has afforded me, from not only seeing the world but for personal growth and increased self-awareness. How much brighter would each day look if I awoke with thoughts of gratitude rather than thoughts of longing or anxiety? Despite all the things going on in our lives that we cannot control, we CAN choose to do this. But I guess I had forgotten how.

It was a funny wake-up call for my overly emotional, overly analyzing mature self, to be reminded of a simple and beautiful concept by a silly fourteen-year old whose life was highlighted by drama with her dance teams and the cute boys in P.E. class. Even if she did happen to be… me.

These next few weeks will be hard, maybe the next few months, or even the whole year. I know that. I know that and yet still choose to stay. And through it all my prayer is that I will be able to step back and consistently remind myself of what is truly important. To give thanks, for nothing in this life is certain. But through all of it, there is learning, there is beauty, and there is love.

And for that, I will always be grateful.