leaving...

For a year and a half I lived with them. I watched their children grow, sit, walk, and talk. I ate a few Sunday noon meals with them and I spent random nights watching random movies. I was ushered into their “24” cult and I was made a part of their lives. I slept on a twin waterbed in a room where a little girl would knock almost every morning. “Nay?” “Yes,” her mother would reply. “Shhh – Nay nuh night,” would be her response.

A year and a half ago I moved into their house. I was nervous. Scared. Alone. I sat on my waterbed as everyone mingled and bustled around downstairs. I didn’t know these people. They didn’t know me. For someone who tends to shy away when overwhelmed, this was going to be an entirely new experience.

And it was. In every way possible. New food. New people. New places. New movies. New friends. My routine farming Mennonite home life was left in the dust. Yes, it came up in numerous conversations, but that was as far as the familiar reached into my life.

And here I am a year and a half later. Leaving behind what became my home. Yes, it was a sad day indeed.

I will forever be grateful for the blessings they poured into my life.