Fact: My status on Facebook has claimed that I am “sick” of the same questions.
Fact: I don’t lie on Facebook.
Fact: Going home is difficult.
Fact: Defining home is even more difficult.
I was back in Indianapolis/Zionsville last weekend. It was a quick little jaunt back to the Midwest. Funny that this trip didn’t feel like I was going home when I stepped on the plane. I realized that when I my friend Kristin dropped me off at the airport – I do not know what I call home anymore. I remember that moment when Z’ville felt like home for me. And when college did. Now, not so much.
I’m not quite sure if the feeling is that Pasadena/Fuller are now home, or if it is that I do not have a “home.” There is something rather temporary that I sense at Fuller. (i.e. I do not anticipating being here forever.)
Nonetheless, as I visited, met and listened to people back at home, I realized how deep a disconnect I now have with that so-called community. They know so little about my life, and I know so little about theirs.
I was rather offended and hurt that they knew so little and our conversations were forced to be so pat because my old friends and co-workers just had nothing to base a conversation on. It is one thing for a parent to see me at church and ask where I’m working, how classes are, when I’m done. Those are questions that are overarching and they have no need to know more about. But for my old boss to not know where I’m working, when I’m finishing, etc., really left me at a loss of words.
I sat in an office of one of the pastors and burst into tears Monday afternoon realizing how little they knew of the changes, growth, challenges, hurts, joys, struggles, and triumphs of the last year and how to explain who I am, what I’m really good at, what I’m really passionate about, and why I am who I am would mean a whole day of talking. I felt as though hurt him to tell him, rather bluntly, “you all really don’t know me anymore – that hurts. I’m not a kid. I know I’m the age of some of you’re children, and I’m not nearly as mature, or wizened as the rest of you, but you know, people actually trust my opinion – most other adults do. I look like a kid, but I’ve lived life too.”
It was hard. It hurt him. It hurt me. But, it was truth. And yet it becomes my responsibility to re-engage in conversation with the church in Indiana. They want to know more, but I have to call. I have to initiate. I thought relationships were two-way?