Last night I dreamt of one of my last nights in Africa. The night the baby died, his mother not far behind. The tears I cried for her, the ones she wasn't free to shed as her infant was placed in a cardboard box on the ground. The dream was as haunting as the real experience had been. I woke up disoriented this morning.
Strange that I should find myself here, in a townhouse, living alone. Four walls that give me "security." Rooms filled with things. What am I doing? How'd I get here? This is the opposite of the life I've always longed to live. Weeks go by, slipping into months, fading into years. I feel trapped and claustrophobic. Am I destined to spend my the rest of my days longing for something I don't have? Longing for my own home, my own family? Am I destined to spend the rest of my nights working graveyard, under the glaring stare of florescent lights in a hospital?
My heart cries out for more. It's like I am watching myself from the outside, screaming at myself to not waste my life. Yet each day that passes brings more certainty that I am indeed wasting my life. Oh Jesus, I need You to do a work in me. You are the giver of life and I know that only through You will I truly be made alive again. Give me eyes to see and ears to hear You Lord.
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