So, I took them on the public bus, just like I use every week. I told them the stories from Honduras that I was never going to tell them while I was there. It was actually better overall that they saw me alive and safe with their own eyes before I told them some of the things that happened. I showed them every picture I took there, and explained them all too. They listened for hours while (for the first time) I was able to share every sweet moment that warranted a photo.
Then, as the days went on, though I couldn't slow them down or make them just stop for one second, I could watch as they ministered to the whole community and built relationships with the ones I have been for these past months. To see my Mom pray over my friends and my Dad give Godly advice. Then watching my peers worship as my mom lead worship and see how God uses my parents in mighty ways. And on Friday morning as I watched Mom lead the group in worship, tears streamed down my face.
What dear parents, what dear times. I will treasure their visit in my heart as I wait for the day that I step off that plane and get the welcome home that I so often wake up dreaming about. It's good here. It's very good. But this week showed clearly that my heart will be quite ripe for that plane ride home to San Francisco.
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