I remain in the wallows of trying to vencer my quarter life crisis. I’ve been grappling with this state of discomfort and general confusion about life, you see. I’ve gone from a highly fulfilling–albeit ridiculously tiring and over-heated–mission to being furrowed in my below-zero room eating left over Easter candy. I’ve gone from feeling wonderfully fulfilled as a human being and messenger of God to being a strange twenty-one year old girl who has many hours to fill and few things to fill them with.
But mostly I walk around with an aching heart, missing. It’s hard to be happy with all the missing I have going on in me. I miss loving so many people, I miss helping so many people, I miss speaking Spanish, and, heaven help me, I miss the heat, but most off all, I miss knowing exactly what I should be doing–sharing the Gospel with whoever, wherever. And of course, there are other ways I can do that. Callings, personal efforts to share the gospel. But all will be a hollow echo of the name tag that one carries, of that joy you feel to be a servant of Christ in such an intimate, personal manner, one which I learned to love so very much in the selva de Peru.
When I was a child, I refused to play the left hand on the piano. It stretched my brain too much to be moving two hands at once, to strike out with all ten of my fingers and not just five. I was content to stick with the light notes of the melody whilst playing, to be comfortable and happy with what I knew. But then, in my last ward on the mission, the bishop forced me to play during sacrament meetings, and I finally learned, due to extreme discomfort and painful mistakes, to play the left hand. And the music was much richer for it– but of course it was. Because that’s how it was written. The deep and the light were written to complement and mix and wind through one another. They weren’t meant to be separate. Then I came home, and for some unfathomable reason, tried to go back to playing one hand, which was idiotic. My left hand already knew that it shouldn’t be slacking off, and that it had it’s part to do. The music was hollow and joyless, so I quickly went back to both hands.
And that’s the pain of my soul in these dreary spring days. I was playing on all hands, emotionally, physically, spiritually, intellectually. I was pushing with all I had, living many days in discomfort and making mistakes, but growing and living in a way so much richer. And now I’m back to only using one hand, and you can’t just ignore it. The empty notes are making a ruckus.
People keep asking me what my favorite things about being home is. I’m often left floundering. There were so many things that I thought I missed when I was down in Iquitos–fast food, movie theaters, sleeping in, lazing, making my own schedule–but now that all those things are in my grasp, I have no desire for them. The fruit’s not so forbidden anymore, and anyways, it was an empty, deceptive fruit, really.
I’m not really sure what it is God wants me to do to keep being a useful daughter, and figuring things out are a lot harder done than said, I just know I lack. I fault. And that’s not so very fun. In the mean time, my best coping method seems to be dancing to Taylor Swift when no one is looking. Whoops.
Amen and out.