Living in a country that isn’t mine and learning a language that is foreign is so much less fun that I thought it would be. I had this romantic thought that it would come easily and naturally and that my days would be lovely. Screeeeeeeeeeeeeech. The brakes started squealing about day 2. Almost 7 months ago. Language is HARD. And by hard, I mean, I have studied and listened and tried to speak now for 6 months and I still can’t carry a conversation. I can only introduce myself if I am using full concentration and if I am not flustered. I don’t understand what people are saying, and sometimes, I don’t even understand my tutor. I am in a slump of the deepest proportions. So is my tutor. Her attitude directly affects my learning. Sheesh. So this week feels like a wash…like I’ve had a gazillion setbacks…like I can’t even say hello anymore…like I will never get better or be able to speak on the level of even a preschooler. I’m having a pity party, y’all. This life isn’t romantic. It isn’t fun. And I may seriously hate this stupid language…
I always knew looking back
on the tears would make me laugh,
but I never knew looking back on the laughs
would make me cry.
Then I read something like, and I realize how true it is. And how someday, I hope I can look back on our time here, in this place that makes me cry almost daily, and laugh. That I look back and my heart fills up and I begin to miss being our time here. I hope I remember the laughs, and mostly, I hope I get to see the faces of the people who came to know Him, who were changed in part because of our obedience to come here when all we wanted to do was go home. Or maybe I will only remember how much I changed, and that will have been the reason He called us here.