Man, I am
going to miss this place.
The red dirt
roads
The feeling of
sticky rice between my fingers
The oohs and
aahs at a culture so familiar to me.
The smiles
when I mispronounce something
The black hair
and dark skin
The spicy
cucumber and
the way the
sky looks at night,
Painted with
palm trees and stars.
The newness of
a sip of chocolate milk
And the bliss
of freshly baked bread.
The risk of
riding a bike on the side of a busy highway
And the unmatchable feeling of
Community,
Home,
Love.
The sound of
the wind running past my ears as we speed
Through the
city
Sitting,
uncomfortable,
On a mat in
the back of a pickup truck.
The flash of
lights as we pull out into the night,
And the sa bai
dee’s when we return home.
The miss
you’s,
The beautifuls,
And the
songs--so moving--in a language I cannot understand.
The murmur of
foreign prayers late at night
To a God that
is
So much bigger now.
The off key
voices singing praises,
Joyfully,
To he who sees
everything.
The pain of my
wrist after a long day of fooseball,
The adrenaline
that pumped through these veins when I first realized
What God can
do through me.
The
earnestness of each conversation.
The elation in
each step of the day.
The cold water
on my back
And hot sun on
my face.
The learning
to teach and
Most of all,
Teaching to
learn.
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