There's been a lot on my mind-grapes as of late. Any time I go through an experience such as this one, with both a start date and an end date, I realize just how brief life can seem. God has repeatedly called me into seasons of life. You might say that everyone's life is a series of seasons, and I won't disagree. But what I'm trying to get at is that God has set aside literal frames of quantified time in the last 4 years of my life where I've been specifically called to enter, love, and leave. I think about people at home who have the privilege or luxury of staying in the same place for most of their lives, going deep in relationship with the same people, their lives oozing of consistency and stability. These are the things I yearn for; what's funny is that secretly they probably yearn for some type of adventure where they can throw off the shackles of commitment and just go. I guess the grass is always greener.

Trusting has never been an easy process for me. I'm slow to warm up to people and even slower to commit to them. I weigh the costs and I'm probably too selfish with my time. I'm not willing to risk a lot; I look for safe investments with good turnover. This is the kind of person I am, and I don't know which set of conditions are responsible - nature, nurture, past experiences, current struggles, my parents, my friends, God - all I know is that everyone has a default setting. My default setting keeps me safe until I feel like there's no risk in venturing out of doors. Or at least, that's what it would like to do.

And then there's God. He created the universe. He made the plants and animals and the rocks and the trees and dodo birds and fuzzy caterpillars and you and me. He knows about my default setting. He knows where it came from and how it will grow or hinder me in my life. And He loves me. Because He loves me, He wants me to be happy. But even more than that, He wants me to love Him, follow Him, and be a healthy, functioning adult member of the body. He could appease me by just giving me what I want so I'd be happy all the time, but you see He is much more wise than that. He knows that when you give a child some candy he will be happy; but when its all you feed him, his teeth will rot out of his head, he'll develop early onset diabetes, and frankly he'll probably grow to despise the candy altogether. He'll be sick on it.

Awhile back I told God I wanted more than just to be happy. I don't think this request came out of my fallen self, because as I write this I can think of nothing better in the world than to be happy, without a care in mind. I think it must have been a very brave thing for me to say, and looking back now I'm not sure I was really in the right mind to ask that. You see, the thing about God is that He's so smart. So smart. He knows just the right thing for me to do, or to go through, to make me into the sort of person I always wanted to be but doubted was even possible. Everything in my life I had strived out of my own vain effort to be, that seemed perilously out of reach, now sit at my feet - a row of brightly wrapped boxes with ribbons, each tagged with one of my many names. He said, "Baby girl, these are for you. Walk with me and learn who you are."

And I think about my default setting. The tendency in my heart to remain, to watch the world turn behind panes of glass, safe in my fortress of solitude. The tendency to want to observe rather than participate. The tendency to learn from the mistakes of others.

Yesterday I was talking to God out loud in my room, in a not-so-unique combination of angry and tragically sad moods. I was angry at God for yet again bringing wonderful people into my life, allowing me to love them, and then at the very pinnacle of satisfaction requiring me to fly far away from them, as though the very purpose of relationship from the get-go was warm fuzzies. I'm approaching the car crash, the moment when I'll be given the responsibility of giving back to God what was never mine to begin with. And so I'm bracing for impact, when every impulse tells me to run. Escape. Lessen the attachment so the rip won't be as painfully scarring. I always think I can let go gradually, but God just has different ideas about that. I always seem to fall heavily into love with people just as they are about to go. So heavily. Their eyes glimmer in a way I've only casually noticed before. Their smiles captivate me. I'm held in their laughter, curiously aware of the love I have for them in the moment I feel it.

Oh Father, how I love them. No wonder you weren't willing to give them up. And in the midst of my bitter complaints to my Maker about the cold hard reality of love and loss, I wondered aloud if it was worth it. Love isn't something you can quantify. My heart isn't coming back physically heavier than it was when I left. I have memories and feelings, but those are so transient. Well what the Hell was the purpose then?

Love changes. By nature. It refuses to leave anyone where it found them. God changes. By nature. He refuses to leave anyone where He found them. And there's a thousand lessons of why its better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. But it just takes so much faith. Spend hours of your life, some more pleasant than others, with people to learn to know them and respect them and challenge them and enjoy them, just to let them walk out the door. I just want to keep keep keep. I want what's mine. I want the assurance of affection ever-present at my side. Enter, love and leave. These are His words to me. You came here empty handed and so you will return.

Its impossible not to have regrets. But I have to believe that some things are ordained. I have to believe that some things are not for solely my benefit. And yes, there is so much pain when the time comes to say goodbye. But I also know that if there's one thing I understand its that pain is the evidence of true love. I am called to say goodbye. I am called to enter, love and leave. I am called to experience the pain of separation. In fact, I am privileged to experience that pain. You see, God wrecked my default setting. He said, I know where you come from and I'm not willing to let you remain there. My love changes. It's the nature of my love to do so. Come on. There's so much more out there. Rise and walk, and be healed. Take note of the beauty in the people I lend to you. Enjoy them as I enjoy them. Commune with them, see them, embrace them, give yourself to them with reckless abandon, with no earthly assurance of safety. What is love, if not dangerous? Dangerous in the way that threatens your pride and any semblance of control you thought you had. It's crazy. Love is crazy. Its amazing that humans are so driven to attempt it. And this is a sign of the divine - that our hearts seek it, sometimes without our recognition or permission.

Its an orphanage of sorts because there's really not much structure to speak of. There's a freestanding kitchen where the volunteers cook 2 meals a day for the children who reside there. There's a pavilion covering a large concrete slab where the children eat, play and learn in front of a blackboard hanging from the roof. There are a few squatties and an open shower area in the middle of a field. There are a couple swings and a couple slides. There's a small clinic with a couple classrooms attached. That's it, home to more than 400 children who have nowhere else to play and learn.

I have been to Smile almost half a dozen times. Each time I see knew kids, but I also recognize some of the ones who have been there since my first visit in early January. I know you're not supposed to have favorites, but I do. Her name is Fatuma.

I'm not sure how old she is. I'm not sure she does either. My best guess would be about 7, though all the kids look smaller than they should. I never find her right away, usually she's off playing with other girls her age. But I always find her. Or she finds me. She remembers me, always remembers my name. We sit down under the pavilion and we sing songs, like Jesus Loves Me, or Joy to the World. We play "Double Double", a hand clapping game, and see how fast we can go or how many times we can get in a row. We usually end up laughing a lot.

Last week when we visited, I was playing with Fatuma over by the construction site when a crowd of three or four boys came and stood over us. They couldn't have been more than 10 years old, but when you're sitting on the ground and they're standing right in front of you, they can seem quite imposing. A shadow fell over us.

They started talking to her. It was in the local language; I couldn't make out most of what they were saying, but I caught the sentiment. Something something mzungu. I could imagine what they were saying, judging by the look in their eyes and the smirks on their faces.

"You like playing with the mzungu, yeah? Why? They always leave. This one's gonna leave you too. She doesn't love you. If she did, she wouldn't leave."

Whatever they said, the light behind Fatuma's eyes went dim. She began to look past them, into the distance. She didn't cry, she just became silent. Even after they left, she still stared, as I wrapped my arms around her. She didn't respond, other than putting her head on my shoulder.

We sat like that for what seemed like forever, until I just picked her up in my arms and carried her back to the pavilion. She just laid there, in my arms, until there was no way of knowing if she was awake or asleep.

"Alison, can you check? Is she awake?"

I spun around. Alison looked.

"She's passed out."

I continued walking to the slab, not really knowing what to do, but not wanting to give her away. I had no assurance of her safety anywhere else. A young boy came up to me, one of the "junior cops" that keeps order around the orphanage, because there just aren't enough adults around.

"This one too old to be carried. Put her down."

I didn't want to put her down.

"She goes to rest now. Put down."

Reluctantly, I set her down on feeble legs. Dazed, she began to walk towards the rest area, not looking back. I sigh.

Smile Africa. Irony.

Its the natural progression of how things go sometimes here in Africa.

Living encompasses all sorts of decisions and choices that normal young adults are never faced with in America. We like to reference Reese's mom Monica and sing a little song called "Adult Decisions" when it comes time to build coping skills to deal with the uncertainty around us. There is no one here who will make a decision for you, whether its as complicated as where one should go to college next year or as simple as whether to drink tea or hot chocolate with breakfast. "A-dult deciiiisions", we sing.

Last week when we were moving from our debrief location in Jinja, Uganda to a tiny town just outside of Homa Bay, Kenya, we had to fit all 12 of us, a driver and a conductor into a rickety African "matatu", or 15 passenger van (actual size = large toaster oven). On top of that (and literally "on top" of the van) we had our packs which are each about the size of a 6 year old. So we are assured at the border that everything will fit, even though by any gauge of realistic expectation, someone or something was going to be left out.

I have a little saying I like to bring up in situations like these: L.A.F.I.T. Let the Africans Figure It Out. Every neuron in my brain is firing the same message: "Yeah that's not gonna work." And then I remember that its not my job to pack the van, praise Jesus. I like to take a short mental vacation during these times.

So, by the grace of God, all 12 of us, the driver and the conductor, make it into the toaster and all our bags are in a Mount Kilimanjaro-sized pile roped precariously to the roof. The roads between the border and Kisumu look like the scene out of an action movie, like some Transformers have had an epic battle here and left giant craters in the middle of the road. I mean, they're huge. You an fit a family of 4 and their golden retriever inside just one of them. You could fill one with water and swim in it.

So as we drive its acceleration BRAKE SLAM weaving around the pothole acceleration BRAKE SLAM bobbing left and right, etc. This lasts for about an hour and a half. If you didn't struggle with motion sickness before, you're now a believer.

At one point (during one of the many "rough patches" we encountered) Jenessa's pack flew off the roof and landed several yards back. By the grace of God KC saw it fly off out of the corner of her eye. There was no peace of mind or rest for us backseat passengers at that point - we were on pack patrol.

Eventually we made it, slightly sweatier and grumpier than we had been previously, but even now I look back on this story with a smile, thinking of the ways I can tell this to my grandkids someday. Oh Africa...oh, Africa.