You know, it kinda hurts when a ton of bricks hits you. Obviously, I've known that I'm close to going home, but I've done my best to ignore the fact. Unfortunately, that fact has now slapped me in the face and refuses to go away. My mission is almost over and I can't really pretend otherwise anymore. The mission president's wife asked me what I want for my "last supper," I've been sent my scheduled time for my departure interview, and my mom keeps asking me for all the details I don't want to think about (I love you, Mom!). I can't pretend anymore.
It may seem strange to you, but leaving the mission is
much harder than leaving America was. When I walked away from my family
in the airport, I knew it wouldn't be too long till I saw them again.
When I saw the lights of LA disappear behind me as we flew out over the
dark Pacific, I knew I'd be back eventually. Before the week is up,
I'll get on a bus and watch Kalibo slip away, not knowing if I'll ever
see those people again. Then I'll get on a plane and see the whole
Philippines fade in the distance. When I land, I won't be allowed to
speak Hiligaynon anymore, no one will understand. I won't be able to use
Tagalog or Aklanon or Kinaray-a, I only have one language option again.
No one will stare at me, they won't shout and try to get my attention.
I'll be normal again. I'm not sure if I still know how to do that.
It hurts. It really does. It hurts to know that it
will all be over and I'll never get it again. For the past 18 months,
I've been an active part of helping people change their lives. I've
spent every waking minute thinking of how I can bring others closer to
Christ. I've been a missionary! I only have one more week of it, and
then it's gone. I'm excited to go home, but I wish I could stay. I feel
as much like I'm leaving my home as I feel like I'm going back to it.
The next time I write, I'll be in America. It's just weird.
Kana ako, pero hasta sa panit lang, Pinay daw ako so sulod. Masakit ang pagpuli. Ayaw ko.
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