The Marriage of Homesickness and Wanderlust


The way my ears perk up when I hear English, the smile that spreads across my face when I understand the refugee couple on the tram, and the warmth I feel at the smell of a cigarette tell me I have not fully ‘arrived.’ Whatever arrival means.

In Zambia, about two years ago, I wrote: 
Life at the lake is not waking up, loathing the day, and dragging myself from the sweet comfort of bed. Nor is it waking up with an eager mind's eye fixed in the events of the day ahead. It is not with excitement and delight that I go about my business. Nor is it with the drudgery that accompanies duty. No, you will not see me walking round, my face etched with somber obligation, nor will you see a spring in my step (not very frequently anyway).
Rather, it is a peaceful sort of submission, this life at the lake.  It is putting one foot in front of the other. It is saying “yes” when I'd rather not. It is embracing new kinds of service as best I can. It is keeping my eyes open. It is growing. It is learning something of contentment. Yes, and submission. It is the leg of the journey where God is leading me slowly up an incline, showing me small wonders along the way, preparing me. Preparing me for… what? I wonder.

In Germany, now, I feel as though I could write the same thing all over again. The same sort of peaceful submission marks this time. The same sort of embracing, the same sort of incline and the same sort of wonders. Steady step by step. Not the heaviness that once was, not the drudgery I expected school to be, not the loneliness I that I thought might be, but the steadiness of moving forward. And it’s good.

But underneath the step by step daily submission, is a tug of war. Two opposing forces, vying for space inside of me. The ache for the unknown of places and people new and exciting, for the challenge of learning a language from scratch, for the color and music of cultures not my own, for the celebration of differences, for the adoption of the ‘fremd’ into my being. A longing to reduce my belongings to what fits in a backpack and go. To not be bound by deadlines or expectations or plans. To discover. To grow. To wander.

And this ache is not born of a lack of love for Here, for its contender is a settler, a builder of homes. An equally strong and momentarily unfulfillable and divided urge. A longing for the home of my past, the sweet comfort of belonging, before I was faced with the realization of how not German I am. A longing, I suppose, for the carefree home of childhood, before responsibility kicks in. But also for the home I hope for, the home to be. A desire to find a home right here where I am, to build up the necessary social network, the sense of familiarity, and to have the courage to send down roots, knowing full well they will be uprooted in the swiftly moving course of time. My heart aches not only for the home of the past and of the future, but also for all the places I have called home in between. The shores of Lake Tanganyika… yes, Zambia became home, and my tent in Mahahe, and Grace House, and many other places.

Sometimes, I think the former desire is gaining ground and I believe, if someone offered me a life in Timbuktu, I would abandon my bachelor’s degree, sell all my stuff and high tail it out of here. But then comes the whisper ‘Build a home.’ And I know, I am here now. I am here.

Underneath the step by step daily submission, wanderlust and homesickness have given up their dead-end tug-of-war and chosen instead, to marry. Perhaps they are not so incompatible after all, although their marriage, I don’t doubt, will have back and forths of its own.

Running deeper still is a peace. I am here. Perhaps I have not arrived yet, but I am here.

11/2/2018

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