A mere three weeks is all that stands between complacency and freedom. Here I am, fifth sleepless night in a row, looking up train ticket prices, cafes in Glasgow, and the location of CS Lewis’s house. My heart wanders through adventures yet to be taken. I should be overcome with happiness, dancing through grocery isles unabashed. Please don’t get the wrong idea, I’m so unbelievably happy and there have been plenty of grocery store dancing moments, but right now I’m crushed, devastated even. Not about going, but about the idea of having to come back. Again, don’t get me wrong, I adore my home and my friends and my family and chikfila, but let me try to explain myself in the most dramatic way I can. Imagine your greatest love (other than Christ). Think about that presence in your life that you could not exist without. Now imagine if it kept being taken away from you, and given back, and taken away again. For most people, your love is probably a person, which is amazing and maybe I will have one of those one day too, but this love that I have is a little bit more unconventional. I have a hard time naming it. I guess I would call it travel, but that word doesn’t seem to describe it deep enough. I just… I love it. This feeling I have when I hear a foreign language or see a building that’s been there for centuries. I’m in love with this calling to explore new places and reach lives that have never been reached before. It’s a dream I wont give up for any person, place, or thing. I have so many experiences that are just a taste of the life I know God has for me, and I’m a little more devastated every time it ends. However, I’m also left with a stronger assurance of my calling. So yes I realize that it’s a little soon to be crying about coming back when I haven’t even left yet. I also realize that you are probably sick of me talking about traveling, and I’m sorry. I just thought you should know… I’m in love.