On Sunday morning I woke nice and early and boarded a train down to San Diego to visit the Heck family. They so generously bought me a train ticket down there, and I was thrilled to accept their kindness. After graduating high school in January 2003 I moved down to San Diego to live and serve with an Inner City ministry called The City of Refuge. I like to consider it my “roots”. It was the place where so much of my faith in God, hope for a better future, and love for the poor was born. It was there that I really fell in love with this family. Some days I long for the sweet innocence of my youth in that time. It was as if nothing could shake me. I knew what I knew, and I loved with all I had. Or so I remember it. I was excited to re-visit these roots I remember so fondly, and see the people that helped me to discover the woman I wanted to grow to be. I have since changed, grown, hardened, softened, seen, heard, loved, and disliked… In fact most days I don’t feel at all like the girl I once was-- loving grown men soaked in urine, reeking of alcohol, or going to Jack in the Box with transvestites that “meow” instead of talk, or loving kids with hard hearts and brutal attitudes. I miss my unconditional hope and love. These years and travels have seemed to give birth to a bit of cynicism, and for that, I feel a sense of regret. However, I know that time and life have served me well. I know I will one day realize that the questions I have about “life” will be the very questions that strengthen my foundation. The sorrow I have for the world will one day be my passion to see it changed. The brokenness and hopelessness I now feel for mankind will one day be my strength to continue loving, sharing, and hoping. These giants I feel I have been wrestling with for the past year will turn into my closest friends, and I hope that I will one day thank them for there efforts in forming the person I become 70 some odd years down the road. I hope to understand a great deal more about love, selflessness, hope, and peace. But for now, most days I am confused about the state of the world, the state of religion, and where I fit in the midst of both; thus giving me reason to bathe in the sweet memories of my youth.

When I arrived Sunday afternoon after seven and a half hours on the train, Willie, Kurtis, Cori and I went downtown to hand out burritos they had made earlier that day to the homeless. It was fascinating to see some of the same faces I had known four years ago. When I lived there in 2003 we would go downtown every Thursday night and hand out clothes, food and water. I became close friends with these people who claim the street as their home over months and months of discussing the many demons that seem to plague this population. Some of them mothers, fathers, many of them veterans from the Vietnam War, struggling from addiction, mental illness, trauma, failure to cope… the list continues. I was surprised to see the same old people in the same old spots, living the same old lives. And then again, where else would they have gone? I thought about my last four years, where I’ve been, what I’ve done; home, Connecticut, India, home, India, Philly, home, Australia, Egypt, India, home… all the while, there they’ve been. I felt a sense of dull perspective. One couple we approached had never accepted the burritos before. That week they did. Willie said they were often distant, but as we left the woman wrinkled and aged by the hardships of life whispered to me, “Pray for us…” I said I would. When I told Willie he said--- “Why didn’t you pray for them?” I remembered that that is what we did every Thursday night; we give out food, we pray for those who ask… To be honest I didn’t even think about it. All I said in response was, “I guess I’m not used to praying in public.” For the 200^th time since I’ve returned I realized how jaded I have become. We continued handing out burritos, socks and water. With every bottle of water I handed out I felt joy inside me rising. Giving truly is healing, and loving seems to answer a whole slew of questions. Or perhaps they just don’t seem to matter as much.

Monday Kim, Cori and I visited an adult day care home. The second I began talking with one of the elderly women there with Alzheimer’s I became overwhelmed with memories from my days at Sydney Creek, and just how much I had enjoyed working there. I realized how while working there I had developed a knowledge of a whole new language, and a love for using it. It was a really nice day. That night Willie, Cori and I went to a male rehab home called “In His Steps”, where Willie teaches a bible study every week. The men were very kind, and my heart broke for them.

Tuesday night we had a bible study at their house. Kim made spaghetti and I shared for a bit about my travels. I still get overwhelmed sharing with groups, expected to sum up a year, which seemed like 4 in ten minutes. I did however, and it turned out all right. Wednesday night Willie, Cori and I went down to City of Refuge. The Hecks have since moved away from that community, and started a ministry of their own in Ramona. It was incredible to see that the kids I once loved so dearly have turned into young adults. For days I had been asking Willie about two boys I have thought about over the last four years. He said they’d stopped coming around years ago, one involved in drug dealing the other in gangs. My heart broke with the news as I had once hoped that these kids would be different. I asked if there was any chance they would be there, Willie said it would be a miracle if they were; one of the boys he and Kurtis had been driving around looking for, for months. None the less, almost as soon as I arrived who would come walking down the street but the two very boys I wanted most to see. I had to hold back tears. They had both become young men, one tall and built, the other with facial hair… I could hardly believe it. One of the first things one of them said to me was, “You didn’t take me to prom...” All of a sudden I was flooded with old memories, and I remembered how we had decided I’d go with him to his first prom. I told him he should have called me. They seemed the same, yet harder. They both said they were doing better; one had become a bike messenger, the other a boxer. It was really nice to see them. I found out about other kids like them, who I had loved so much back then. Some married, some with babies, some dabbling with gangs, some in foster homes, some good, some bad…

It was Wednesday night--- Kids Club night. I went with all of the new kids up to the warehouse. The warehouse that used to be plain concrete walls, stuffed with donated furniture, clothes, mice, trash, was now a kid’s haven rigged with sofas, chairs, tables, even a bar. The walls had been decorated with beautiful spray painted art. I could not believe what it had become. I walked around in a daze remembering what bits and pieces I had done. “I painted that wall and this part of the floor, and that stair…”

It was nice to see everyone, and yet difficult at the same time. I felt like I was a stranger in my own home. This was home, and yet, I was different. I suppose it has grown and changed over the years as well. I felt so foreign. I left that night happy, lost in a world of memories and thoughts.

Thursday morning before I left for the train station, I was to talk about my travels in Cori’s third grade class. When her teacher found out I was coming to town she asked Kim if I’d be willing to share with a room full of 8 year olds. I was stunned at first… “How on earth am I supposed to talk about A. delivering babies, and B. third world nations to a group of home schooled country children. So I talked about Australia, homework, kangaroos… Egypt, pyramids, camels, garbage city, Sudanese refugees, big bellies… India, the hospital, delivering babies, cleaning babies, loving people… The presentation was interrupted every few minutes with questions and comments such as… “I was two pounds when I was born.” “Did any babies have anything wrong with them?” “Did any babies die?” “My mommy had a baby in her tummy that died.” “I’m going horse back riding today.” “Did you get to ride a camel?” “I went to Mexico to work at an orphanage, it was hard, and there were so many Mexicans.” “I don’t want to be an orphan.” “How do you deliver a baby?” And it continued… I tried to answer the questions quickly, and creatively, praying with each one that passed that the next one wouldn’t be, “Where do babies come from?” All in all the experience was amazing, and I left that third grade class beaming.

On my train ride home I finished Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali. If you have not read it, read it. It’s incredible. I told a friend that I read hundreds of pages as if they were only a chapter. It is a memoir of a Somali woman who grew up in Somalia, Kenya, and Saudi Arabia. She talks about life growing up, the struggles of religion, civil war, family, and what she has become since then. As I read her stories of North Africa, I felt as if I were back on the littered streets of Cairo, Egypt. Please read it. It will captivate you, and challenge you to think.

I am now back home, at my favorite coffee shop, drinking my favorite tea. I’m still thinking, still learning, still growing, still healing. Life is pretty amazing.