There Were Lights

• Tweet

• Tweet

It’s hard to fathom the feeling of Christmas for someone who hasn’t seen a normal American Holiday in over two years.   Every turkey, every fire cracker, every easter egg all only gathered in the softening memories of childhood.   It’s amazing how quickly one forgets.

When my plane landed with a rough skid on the tarmac this weekend from Africa, I didn’t know what to expect.  I couldn’t remember what Christmas felt like.   I couldn’t even remember what home felt like.  I looked around the plane, to passengers clinging to paper wrapped boxes and odd shaped packages, I was more confused than anything else.  I walked slowly from the terminal amid the garland and spray paint snow.   Cold air hit me in the face like a sucker punch.  I should have kept my tennis shoes, and not given them away, because flip-flops were not enough.

And as I walked out past the security gate, I craned around to see if my parents were there, waiting for me.   As men and women and children collided into each other in flurries of hugs and kisses, I rolled my broken suitcase to the baggage claim alone.  They weren’t there.

It had been the longest flight of my life, as well as the longest fight to get home.   From Cape Town, my plane had been delayed three hours on mechanical problems, which then turned into everyone getting checked off the plane.  So I didn’t even get to sit next to Micah on the way to Amsterdam.   Spent a few hours wandering in the Amsterdam airport, only to find that my flight to London was now three hours late as well, since I missed the connection.   There were two frantic evenings in London where I wandered the city scape in a stupor repeating “this was a bad idea” in my head.  When Sunday finally came, I crawled into a late taxi to go to the airport.   My plane to Paris was on time, but not after they hauled someone off the flight due to being flagged by international security.   It goes on and on and on.  Just one of those days.  I got singled out by security three times, getting a pat down and the opportunity to re-pack my carry on every time.

So when the plane finally landed in Florida, I prayed that someone would come and pick me up, and hold me.   But  I wheeled and slubbed my backpack and broken roller to the curb, and crawled into the cab of my Father’s truck ten minutes later.  I proceeded to answer questions in the back seat but I was simply too tired to care anymore.

When I got home, my body was shutting down.   I just leaned forward and my feet followed.   As I ungracefully pushed into the room I use at my parents house it almost didn’t register.    My Christmas pajamas were on the bed.  There was a tiny white Christmas tree with a golden cross sitting on the dresser, all lit up.   And I was alone, with a queen sized bed.   So I sat down on the floor in the white light, and cried.

I cried for every child I have held in the last two years with AIDs and hopelessness.   For every victim of rape and abuse that needed a person to talk to.   For every starving orphan, desperate mother, disabled father, and exhausted pastor who needed prayer. For every Bible study and youth group and miraculous story.   For every healing and drug dealer who changed their life.  For every language I sort of learned, and every currency I didn’t know how to use.   For the 93 beds that I slept in on five continents.  But I cried, mostly for myself. And how much I missed carpet to sit on, and christmas lights.

I laid with my face on the Berber, knowing I was probably getting it dirty, when I heard Him.

“Stacey.”

Yes Jesus.

“Welcome home.”

All the frustrations melted away.  All the chaos and tiredness.  I closed my eyes, and fell asleep in the arms of my Savior.  To my relief, He had followed me back.  To my joy, Jesus had become my home.

So Merry Christmas to you all.  May it be the best one you have ever had.

Thank you for supporting me, for encouraging me and for sending me.