Why I Can't Seem to Write About My Travels

I've started to recap my travel adventures dozens of times. I was on such a roll chronicling Vietnam. You were probably wondering if I had taken a Vietnamese lover, if I had gotten malaria, if I had indeed been kidnapped at the airport.

I had another post in the offing. It was going to be on weightroom stalking in Vietnam. The over/under on me being asked out by a fellow lifter was 28 days. I hope you picked the under, folks, because less than four weeks in, a young lad did indeed ask me to join him for dessert. I said I would think about it then changed my workout time. I was going to analyze why I seem to be asked out at gyms, but Crossfit has only prompted that on one occasion. My conclusion is: in a gym, I have an aura of mystique, but at Crossfit, I open my mouth, and everyone knows exactly what I'm thinking - all the time. No mystique = No dates. Perhaps I'll work on my mystique entering the next phase of life.

The thing is, every time I begin writing about travel, I think about family. I begin writing about the wonderful people I met in Vietnam, the cheap and delicious food, the sites, and then I remember that the moment I heard my sister had lost her baby, none of that mattered. I begin writing about the amazing sites of Southeast Asia and how to choose the perfect travel buddy - which I definitely did - and then I think about how special it was to show the pictures to my niece and nephews. And how blessed I am that the people I hold dearest and admire the most are my family.

As I was visiting each city, I asked myself, could I see myself living here, or more broadly, could I live abroad after school? And there were moments, mostly when drinking a good wine or eating a donut, that I thought it possible. Then I came home.

Maybe it's because I've spent the last month in Chardon, listening to country anthems and high school football strategy, not having a job and too much time on my hands, but I've been thinking a lot about ten year old Anna. She was definitely independent, creative, a hard worker. But she loved hugging her dad and Sunday dinners with her cousins. She wanted to get married, have kids, and give them the same thing, in the same town.

Seventeen years later, she is getting ready to embark on another adventure, once again on her own. I'm so grateful for the doors that have opened, but helping my sister move into her new house or sitting on my other sister's porch, watching boys jump off the swing set onto the trampoline - a move I suggested, probably to the dismay of their parents - it's hard not to feel a bit of longing for the same and fear of what lies ahead. Not fear about academics - I know I'll rock that - but about the other aspects. About starting over, building new relationships, navigating the job market, continuing to compete even when I'm tired. And what about after? What if God calls me to do something alone again? What if He calls me out of my comfort zone again? Dang it, will I ever know what the next year holds?

I was reminded this week of a few things. 1) God does not call us to convenience. He calls us to His purpose, and He equips us to do it. 2) Miracles do not occur within the comfortable. They occur when we need Him. 3) God is faithful. Always. Last year, I was applying to grad schools and wrote about the obsession over choice. All of the questions I asked about my future were answered so clearly, I didn't have to think twice about one decision. My future is not in my hands, but in the hands of one who plans to give me hope and a future. And finally, God hasn't forgotten about ten year old Anna. There is still time for those dreams to come true, too, even if it is not yet.