Today is not a Morocco day. In 3 weeks I will be leaving Memphis. . .possibly forever. And in four weeks I will have already flown across the ocean on a big plane and landed in a country completely opposite in every aspect from my life and preferences. Why am I doing this? Because of a Commission? Am I going to live out what people have been called to do? Because of my own selfish desires? Am I going to show people in my past that I can live a life of grandeur and exoticness that they could never experience? Because I want to teach? Am I going because I want to share with the students my love of teaching? If that’s the case, why don’t I stay here where I could possible pay off my loans in less than five years rather than another decade of my life. Am I going to prove to myself that I’m not a wimp? To show the world that Rachel Marie Rufenacht can be brave. That she can overcome her tears and fears and stand up and face the giants staring back at her, waiting to crush her under their heels? I honestly think it’s a compilation of all the options. But even when I try to determine my motivation, all I hear is a small voice, and at times a rather large voice, whimpering “I’m frightened.” I hate being scared. I don’t watch scary movies; I don’t read books from the horror or even sci-fi genre; I don’t walk down dark alleys; I don’t go places alone. I don’t like the feelings of terror that well up inside me. And yet, I voluntarily chose this assignment—one that fills me with the terror I long to avoid. I need my Father now more than ever. I have filled my time this summer with frivolous things, hours of television, meaningless books that I never intend to teach, coffee dates, dinner dates, and the like. I am not preparing my mind, not preparing my heart. Do I think that if I avoid the topic, the time will lengthen or disappear? That something else will happen and I won’t be left in another world? It’s not that I don’t WANT to go. I don’t want to be surprised by the unknown. I don’t want to deal with something difficult. I don’t want to look at the ugly monster of responsibilities staring at me. I am now responsible for student learning. That’s intense! And most of all, I don’t want to say goodbye. I hate saying goodbye. I want to gather my family and friends in my pocket and carry them with me so they can share in my experiences, my joy, my grief, my failures, my triumphs.
I guess I’m just complaining to complain—to get this tight feeling out of my chest. I need grace. I need mercy. I need an overwhelming abundance of love. I need to know that even if I physically leave my family for two years of a lifetime, I will never truly leave them. I need to know that even if I feel alone in a country halfway around the world, I will never be alone. I need to know that someone is always listening to me, that life will not always be difficult. I do know these things—I guess I just need constant reminding. And as ridiculous as it is, I need to know that if I leave now, I won’t be giving up my dreams of love and a family—that someday I won’t hear the words “I’m sorry, but I can’t. You’re moving to Morocco.” as if absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, distance means complete separation, or love is unable to travel across the miles of expanse between two people. Will someone wait for me? Will someone’s heartstrings ever beat along side, in tune with mine? Will someone have the same desires, wishes, wants, loves, passions, beliefs as I do?
I can see why people find this therapeutic. When I read back over what I wrote, it seems so silly to be dismayed. I know I have hope, although I seem to forget it more than the average person. And I know that daddy will be faithful to provide for me—he always has been, he always will be. Why does our human nature cause us to forget so easily?
4 weeks to go. You can do this, little engine; you can do this.
