I see the world through a 50mm frame, with my mind opened to f/1.8; every blink stores away a moment, a memory. I live so fully immersed in contemplation that I often feel as if I’m in another universe. I see stories walking down the street and poetry written in faces. I am inspired by words rich with meaning that I can physically sense, like evanescence or wanderlust or home. I dream a lot (always in color!), think a lot, listen a lot, speak a little. I prefer melancholy music with raw, real-life lyrics. I fear too much and confide too little. And rain—steady, gray, contemplative rain—is my favorite.
Less than nine months ago, I sat in an airbus A320 as it ascended over the Cascade Mountain Range, leaving my beautiful Washington State behind for Florida. I cried for every goodbye. I didn’t know if my heart would ever stop hurting from homesickness.
Now I stand before another major change. Again, I will cry for every goodbye. In August, I left my biological family; in less than a month, I’ll be leaving a huge adoptive family that I dearly love. That nagging ache of homesickness will come back. But if I’ve learned anything from moving 3,000 miles away from everyone I knew to a world of complete strangers, it’s this: God’s plan is perfect, and if I surrender to it, He can do more through the changes (uncomfortable as they are) than I can possibly imagine. And this time, I’ll be facing it with the right weapons: thorough knowledge of the content and practical application of the inspired Word of my Lord.
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