Where am I? I ask myself as I scramble over rocks in the river bed, suddenly finding that the rocks and stones do not look familiar.
I raise my eyes to my surroundings. Massive trees tower along the river banks. The lush underbrush is tangled. I can barely see the sky. I’ve come too far, I realize.
I walk back downstream until things look familiar, finding the boulders where the moss and lichen are worn off by hundreds of traversings. I finally find my way again, coming upon a trail out of the river. I begin climbing, ever climbing.
The sweet, spicy fragrance of a tree reaches my senses. As I inhale deeply, blessed by the rugged scent, I climb on until reaching the fruiting tree that bears cherry-plum-like fruits. The tree is picked over, so the hope of finding some at the market for sale tomorrow begins to fill my heart. As the climb continues upward, ever upward, the view thrills my soul. Laid out before me are mountain ranges with fingerling ridges where a lone house may be nestled.
I breathe heavily and emotionally, knowing that I am coming home to my people. Yet, I am not home. There is a long way to go.
Traipsing along the side of the mountain, I pass steep slopes prepared for rice planting. I glimpse the occasional hut thrown together as shelter from the daily sun or rain and as a place to cook and eat. With dense jungle along the cliff to one side of me and along the steep precipice to the other, I am free to think and transition from worrying about my life to the lives of the Palawano people, who are my other family. I pray for those who now believe in Christ and follow Him and those who are yet living in darkness because no one has reached their village yet. I pray for courage and wisdom for what lies ahead.
The trail dangerously changes. I start watching my feet more closely, for as the trail drops sharply, I am prone to slip and injure my fragile knees. I pray they will hold as the trail continues downward. I reach a village where happy voices greet me, asking where I have been and what I have been doing. “We missed you, you know,” they say as they lapse into the current news. As we share stories, the sense of community returns.
Somewhat refreshed, the downward trek continues. I am thankful it is not rainy season, for I would surely be slipping and sliding in the mud. Nevertheless, as the trail is dry, the gravel is my menace. Then I catch a glimpse of the school. The children shyly smile. I have been gone a long time. As they walk into my open arms, they shed their shyness, knowing I am still their grandmother.
I continue greeting people as I wend my way down towards the river and home. I am now realistically hopeful that the journey will be without incident or injury. Finally, I arrive at the journey’s end and sit on my porch to bask in the surrounding beauty. With gratitude, I absorb the familiarity of the tall mountain range to my left, the many hills and fingerlings across the river ahead of me, and the mountain to my right where my close neighbors live. As people learn that I have returned, they slowly come one or two at a time to greet me and share news, reestablishing friendships.
I am home, but not really. I belong, almost. Peace and beauty surround me, and I am grateful every day that the Lord sent me to such an enriching environment. I am thankful, too, for the challenges that remind me, the discomforts and privations that remind me that, no, I am not really home. Not yet. There is still work to be done. There are more trails and rivers to traverse and people to find with whom I can share the good news of Jesus Christ. There are more friends to make so that together, we can journey to our true home and place of belonging.
