Welcome to Delhi

Admittedly, I am not a poet, a wordsmith, or elegant writer. I’ve always had a lot of words and wanted to use them. I see that in my mini-me everyday and as it reflects back it is with secret joy and bewilderment at the patience and extra love it must take to know me.

It happened this week, where I happened to be nearby on business and returned to get my keys (metaphorically speaking) after a four year hiatus of leaving them in India. In an odd coincidence I returned to get them and am relieved to have them, yet saddened by the final, “end of the chapter” of my life that some would classify as an epic failure. Four years ago I walked away from a dream and calling that I thought would be life-long and permanent. I gathered everything I could in my box and went home. But the one thing I couldn’t gather were my keys.

There is an odd sense of space when you find yourself suddenly driving, choosing your own music, and an open road in front of you. While there is an ache to stand outside the gate and know you are no longer a part of something you once held dear, there is a freshness to the smell of the page of a new chapter.

The passion I’ve had for ending trafficking has not died or wavered, in fact it might be more resolved than ever now. There is an abundant relief though, in resting in the knowledge that I don’t have to know what that looks like in my life today. For the moment, I am walking in obedience, right where He’s called and where I need to be. I can’t guarantee tomorrow, but for now, He is enough.

India has a raw, unique beauty to it, frequently only found in the eyes of the beholder. It isn’t one of those natural shout-out beauties, but one you have to lean in to and really see. It sees through you in a nano-second and judges your heart in rapid time. If you can stand the heat and the spice it will wrap itself around you like the warmest hug and give you the best of humanity all while displaying it’s worst.

As I drove away, with my own keys, I realized the locking out feeling I had might just be insulation, protecting me in. You know those weird moments where you are convinced it is against you and then the fog lifts and you realize you were fighting the very defense He’d given you all along? Yes, that.

I leave with the windows down, the music loud, and miles of road ahead.

And this is the sound of surviving.