Old Home Week

This week I’ve been reliving my childhood–or at least college breaks.

Michael and I are making the lovely town of Sylacauga (population 12,616) our home base for the week, and living in my parents’ basement as we share with friends about our upcoming plans in Asia. This arrangement has some big advantages: just last night, we ate a lovely pot roast, mashed potatoes, black-eyed peas, and a just-pulled-out-of-the-oven chess pie, all courtesy of my mom. Not only are we being babied and spoiled within an inch of our lives, but it has also been a really amazing opportunity for Michael to get to know all of the Knollwood people who have been a part of my life since I was 9.

This has sometimes been surreal. Growing up, I remember many dinners/lunches when my parents invited people to come share a meal and talk with us about what they were doing at the far ends of the earth. A few nights ago, we were sitting around the table in someone else’s dining room–eating rolls and some sort of yummy cheesy dish, laughing at their kids and talking about Asia–when I realized that everything had gotten mixed up. It still seems like I should be the child, listening with perked-up ears to stories of places I have never been. Instead, things have changed and now I am the one doing the talking. Such is life, I suppose.

Often this process of “getting there” can be nerve-wracking. I usually have a twisted knot in my stomach every time I pick up the phone to arrange getting together with someone. That is not about to change. BUT in the midst of my fears and fright, this week (thus far) has reminded me that it is not all about me. Whether I am comfortable or uncomfortable, the most important thing is that the Father is honored.

Agghhhh. If only I could remember that next time I go to make a call.

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