Well. We got on the plane. 

After four months of playing some crazy game show of “Pack, Trash, Sell or Give?” with all our stuff, settling our work into trustworthy hands, and enough heartrending goodbyes to twist a heart dry—we neatly quietly faithfully(?) closed the chapter of our lives that is Africa.

Nah. Africa’s far too kneaded into us, far too braided into the fabric that is us. And the work continues, even if at a distance. 

I found myself in that odd twilight of being arrived, yet flayed open like a cardboard box. The pieces of me were finding niches, or seeking one, or temporarily cast aside, or still hiding out. I was — in some ways still am — that inevitable bin at the end when unpacking, where you dumped all the spare randomness. Where in the world should this go? 

I did purchase houseplants and, since Uganda spoiled me on fresh produce, potted herbs (please pronounce the “h”). They were fragrant, green, and made me happy. …Happier. 

Thankfully, despite tugging a few lank leaves and blossoms from their stems, they pulled through. There’s a reason my basil came in a peat pot. The wrapper said it can help avoid “transplant shock.” 

Man. What I would give for a me-sized peat pot.

But the words of Paul David Tripp smacked me between the eyeballs:

“In the life of the believer, fear of weakness amounts to God-forgetfulness. Timidity is a failure to remember the promises of the gospel.

…God has promised to supply and empower; your job is to follow him by faith where you live every day. You don’t wait for the provision before you move. God has not promised that you will see it beforehand…you move forward in the certainty that he is with you, for you, and in you.”

Back to the plants waving at me from my deck. There’s a gardener’s phrase about transition: First year sleep, second year creep, third year leap. 

I expected them to be a bit unproductive that first year. I watched for limp stems, watering vigilantly. 

God doesn’t break a bruised reed. This God–who prunes me, and who’s also harvesting behind where He and I leave–is tender in my transition. He’s patient for blossoms and fruit that will push forward when the season’s just right.