Christmas Letter

It is currently 6:31 am Central Standard Time. I am in the comfort of my Aunt and Uncle’s home in Northern Kansas City, Missouri. I had pancakes for breakfast. And coffee. And orange juice. The gravity and the significance of these facts cannot be sufficiently articulated. But most importantly, I am with family.

I am home for the holidays. And I love it. I like to think of myself as an unconventional type of guy. I like to look at things differently. I like to exploit the hidden side of things. Whenever I go fly-fishing, one of my favorite activities is to pick up the river rocks and look underneath. The hidden side. But it has been a while since I’ve been fly-fishing. I’ve been in Africa. Amid all my unconventionality, I will say, without reservation of spirit, that I love Christmas. December 2006 brought my first Christmas away from home. While it was a joyous occasion, complete with food, drink, song, and friends, it just wasn’t the same (after breakfast, I went to a swimming pool and laid out in the sun). Not because I was in a warm climate, not because I couldn’t do my last minute shopping at Target, but because I was not with my family. Though I’ll be stateside for only a short period of time, I am glad it is during the holidays.

As of late, I have struggled with this word “home”. It tends to be a buzzword among volunteers, as its meaning becomes amplified, diversified, revered, and cherished while we are overseas. Shortly after leaving the United States of America, I missed and longed for home. Each night as I wrote in my journal, I would finish with a list of things that I missed that day from home. One day, I would miss skittles and below freezing temperatures. The next I’d miss self-checkout lanes (gasp) and Fat Tire Beer. During my first few months in Burkina Faso, I missed home. I longed for familiarity. Home was the United States. Colorado. Montrose. My family’s house on 4^th street.

Then, over the course of several months, something strange happened. I got used to Burkina Faso. I learned to tolerate the heat, the dust, the bugs, the smell, and in turn, I learned to love the people and their culture. I made friends. In time, my little two-room mud hut became home. A few days ago, while talking to my family, I said something to the effect of, “when I return home, I’ll…” mindlessly referring to my place in Burkina Faso. This caught me off-guard, as for the first time in my life have I two homes.

One’s environment influences greatly their current outlook. Were I sitting in a muggy, crowded internet café in Ouahigouya, this letter to you all would take on a different tone. But I am instead in Kansas City with my family. The distance surely sweetens my tone. From a distance, the 124-degree days don’t seem so unbearable. Sitting here in a sweater, sipping on a cup of coffee, I find myself systematically romanticizing the past 19 months in Burkina. It’s not all roses. It’s probably not even partially roses over there. It’s hard. It’s frustrating. It’s exhausting. But in spite of these things, it is amazing. And I wouldn’t trade the last 19 months - or the remaining 8 months - for anything.

Thank you all for following my blog. I can’t tell you how important it is for me to hear that you are out there, reading, and hopefully enjoying my words. I love to write, hence. But above all else, I think I am doing this whole blog thing to give Burkina Faso its due credit. The country isn’t even overlooked. To most people in this world, it doesn’t even exist. I hope that my blog, and others like it, are working to change this.

Merry Christmas.

Peace.

j