A Tired Heart

Let’s be real.

I’m sitting on this plane, and the strongest feeling I have right now is not excitement.

It’s dread.

That feels strange to admit.

There are certainly practical concerns swirling around in my mind. There’s an Ebola outbreak making headlines. Riots are happening in Nairobi. International travel always carries its own chaos, and with everything happening politically, even reentry back into the U.S. feels a little less predictable than usual.

None of those things feel great.

But the dread I’m feeling goes deeper than logistics. It feels older. Heavier. More personal. I keep thinking back to my very first trip to Africa. I stayed on a farm in rural Malawi and volunteered at an orphanage. There was a woman there, a full-time missionary from Netherlands, probably in her sixties or seventies, who helped oversee operations. I remember being struck by how deeply unhappy she seemed. There was bitterness in her. Exhaustion. Resentment. She told me she couldn’t go home because her life was now built there and the work still needed to be done.

Even as a young woman, I remember thinking: How can someone spend their life serving beautiful people in a beautiful place and become so miserable?

At the time, I couldn’t understand it. I was overflowing with excitement just to set foot on African soil.

Now…

I understand more than I wish I did.

Over the years, I’ve learned firsthand how difficult this kind of work can be.

There is a strange isolation that can come with overseas ministry and humanitarian work. You can end up in an in-between space where home doesn’t feel fully like home anymore, but the place you serve doesn’t fully feel like home either.

I remember coming back from my first trip and feeling genuine culture shock standing in a Walmart aisle staring at endless skirt options. Endless options. Endless abundance. I had just spent months living with almost nothing.

And then there are the physical realities.I used to romanticize bucket baths and village living. I don’t anymore. I used to get excited about local food. Then came the parasites. And the amoebas. And the repeated reminders that my digestive system was apparently not designed for adventure. To put it simply: experience changes things. Some things that once felt charming now feel draining.