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For those who may remember me posting this before, please forgive me, but it expresses very well the feelings I have struggled with this past weekend.
As a part of the community of former missionaries, I would like to give them a shout-out today to the tune of “This World is Not My Home.”
One of the comments that most made my cringe would I would return for furlough and fund-raising was “Welcome home.” I understand and appreciate the sentiment behind it, but I was not “home.” Home had taken on a quite different meaning in the context of a different culture and language.
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What is a community? A group of people that identify themselves as being part of a group, joined by belief, geography, interest, or other commonality; a feeling of fellowship and understanding shared by a group of people that have a particular characteristic in common.
I doubt I will find a Venezuelan community in the Searcy area, but that does not stop me from inviting others into my own Venezuelan community, created by making arepas (stuffed corn patties made of finely ground pre-cooked cornmeal), black beans, or fried plantains, sharing stories about my time living in the country’s beauty and enjoying the fellowship of its people.
Tomorrow, I will gather with a community of LSU fans to cheer on the Tigers, even though (or especially since) we are in the rival state of Arkansas, away from our home team.