Homecoming

As it turns out, we didn’t get “punked.” There were no tricks concerning living with a host family in rural Africa.
It is here. It is now.
Sweet African beats are ricocheted back and forth in our complex here. Morning cleaning has begun; dishes and sweeping mostly. I just finished a jog with Immanuel, CaCoo, & George, that valiant little guy nearly kept up with us until the very end when his tired legs let him sprint no further.
The welcoming celebration yesterday was perhaps my first overwhelming experience where my emotions gushed with excitement. Undoubtedly, the marching band, running ten to twelve deep, initiated my reaction. It felt like a traditional homecoming parade, with a few exceptions…
When I looked up, I did not see the water tower, but lush jungle. I was not walking down 2nd St., but an unpaved road of amber dirt. Candy was not thrown, but an offering of water and cornmeal was poured into the street to ensure our safety and success. The trumpet players were not frightened at the prospect of belching their horns. In fact, they seemed turned on to the idea. And finally, our school song was not tooted as a grand finale, but a melody of African drums with our cautious host moms leading the dancing.
In short, it was a great homecoming to a place that is as far away from home as I’ve ever been.