the only things that's still mysterious to me is the Creator.

If you don't want to...

bathe and wash your clothes in a river

share a twin bed with someone you just met (for 3 straight weeks)

eat rice with spicy fish sauce for breakfast

scrape a dead lizard off your pantry shelf

take the pure aroma of hot, rotting garbage, put it into the texture of undercooked eggs, and eat it with a smile because the locals call it Durian, The King of Fruits 

dodge slightly poisonous tree frogs on your way to the bathroom at night

try to teach English while a spider the size of your face hangs out on the wall

regularly use power outlets that show evidence of just having caught fire

accept these three words: all carb diet

take about 5 weeks to download a 45-minute episode of your favorite TV show

sleep in 48 different beds in just as many weeks

forget what it's like to not sweat

be woken up in the middle of the night by an Indian man trying to sell you chai

grow accustomed to the scent of raw sewage

have all of these things become more normal to you than a shower

see the world for how it really is, and learn to love it like the One who created it...

...don't go on the World Race.

-Katie

here's a sneaky snapshot from one of the homes we visited in Kenya:

if that doesn't prove the sheer randomness of World Race life... look more closely.

yes. that's a dove. in a martini glass. with a magic wand. 

As promised, here's a glimpse into my mind during the past week of post-Race adjustment.

It's been easier than I ever expected.

But as I told a friend over coffee this week, "The only thing I got used to this year was getting used to things."

And really, that's only partly true. I did have one constant through all of the change: the Q. Leaving them at JFK was, unexpectedly, the hardest thing I did all year. 

We were welcomed with noise and color and hugs and tears at the arrivals gate. Even though it was almost midnight, over 2 hours later than our scheduled return last Saturday, energy & emotions were high. There were more friends and families than returning Racers in that high, glass-walled hall. I'd barely stepped out from baggage claim when Diana plowed into me. 

She met my teams in a confusing whirl of names and hugs, and we slowly gathered away from the crowd. The Q in a huddle around our packs--that was nothing new. Except that Diana was there. Except that we weren't staying together in any respect. Diana and I had a friend in the city waiting for us, so I felt an urgency to leave. I said a few goodbyes and we hurried out to get a taxi. 

I'd barely opened the door of the yellow cab when I saw my whole squad through the glass wall, still bunched around those huge packs. Something caught in my throat. When the driver asked where to go, all that came out was,

  "I--  ca-ha-han't   le-he-he-heave   them!" 

I collapsed into heavy sobs that lasted all the way to Brooklyn. The entire plane ride from Poland, I smiled and joked with everyone, wondering "What else can I possibly say to people I've spent every moment with for this whole year?"

Suddenly, driving away from them, there was too much to say, too much I hadn't said. 

Diana held my hand with understanding that entire night, through my happy storytelling and sudden bouts of crying. That story is apparently funny to hear now, mostly because it's just so pathetic. I'm not hiding it: I was a mess.

Sleep was enough to put me back together, and the following days in New York were just fun. We just walked around and ate. We just talked through every bit of life we'd missed. 

Tuesday, I came home.

My family was at the airport in full America-balloon-toting cheesiness. I've never been happier to see them. 

The next night, mom and I were curled up watching "Tangled". I'd just been telling her about the lantern festival in Thailand that is mimicked in the movie, when lightning flashed and everything went dark.

Seconds later, angry rain hammered down on the roof. I sat up quickly, thinking, 

"Did I leave any clothes hanging outside?!" 

I laughed immediately, telling mom what had just popped into my mind. She laughed too, unnecessarily reminding me that we have a machine that does that. 

My next thought was to check the windows and roof to make sure nothing was leaking. I even got up and walked around the bedrooms, though I didn't say why. Something somewhere had to be wet--it was raining.

In that moment, I realized how far away I really was from the places I'd lived this year.

In Rwanda, rain like this would have had dark red mud seeping into the living room.

In Cambodia, rats would have sought shelter in the dripping roof.

In Nepal... well, we didn't really have an "inside" there. We held up tarps against the uncovered windows as rain came in sideways on our bed.

But here in suburban Kansas, we were in a flash flood warning, and 

nothing 

happened.

I may as well have been watching the storm on TV. It couldn't touch me.

And that's pretty much how I feel right now. I may have been a mess in those first few hours on American soil (really, American concrete. It was New York.) but the peace I've felt has less to do with the beautiful haven that is my family's home (or my sister's new home in Haven, KS) and more to do with the foundational assurance I found in Jesus this year. I really feel like nothing can rock me. 

A few of my Racer sisters articulated things really well in their coming-home posts, so I'll let them wrap up mine. And I'll tell you more about my parents' home later.

-Katie

I think the strangest thing for me is how at peace I feel. I know I'm not the same person I was when I left 11 months ago. I expected to have a harder time stepping back into old, familiar places knowing I am so different, but His grace is sufficient for all things and so far transition is going very well.  I'd ask for your continued prayers as I know transition and re-entry is a process that will take some time to walk through. -Joni

In all seriousness... I have kind of adopted a lot of "World Race Culture" beliefs and feelings for my own. We are a culture of high honor, high safety, high courage, and high grace. We meet people where they are. We call people into greatness and walk them into freedom. Yes, these are what I sometimes deem as cheeseball phrases, but they have really become my life. - Samantha

Dear beloved friend,

I'm going to see you soon. It's true!

It's no secret or surprise that this year has changed me. My homecoming will be a big adjustment for everyone I'm close to, and I want us both to be ready for it. These are a few things I think are most important for you to know before I land back in Kansas.

All of these things are true for me.

I will probably get very... very excited about things like carpet, air conditioning, and hot water.

I will probably forget that I don't have to book a bus or find a taxi to get somewhere.

I haven't had control over much this year, so choices may overwhelm me. This will probably make any kind of shopping an emotional minefield.

I still love a good coffee shop. One of my favorites was OR2K in Kathmandu:

This year had distinct seasons; it will be hard to answer questions that involve superlatives. Avoid asking about the "best" or the "biggest" or the "most", at least for a few weeks.

Questions that seem simple might make me recall a lot of detail. Be ready for long answers. I'm a verbal processor.

Sometimes I'll just say "I don't know." But I do know. I'm just not sure how to say it yet.

A big part of my journey this year was becoming ok with saying, "I don't know."

Every community has its own normal. I might have picked up a few words & phrases from The Q that are foreign to everyone at home, and I have no idea what those things are. Please fill me in. :) 

Some of my default behaviors have changed. I probably won't react to things or talk about things the way I did before. 

All of my stories will sound a lot cooler than they actually were. Except for this one, and this one. They were freak-out worthy. Everything else was just life, just what was necessary or normal at that time.

More importantly, these are a few things I will strive to do. Hold me to it:

I promise to not judge America for living comfortably. In all of those weeks in hot, dusty villages, I longed for that comfort. 

I promise to not start every single sentence with some variation of, "Well, when I was in this obscure country with these people you've never met..."

I promise to be impressed by impressive things. I really haven't done or seen everything. I promise to listen, to be interested, to learn from you.

I promise to move forward with all that I've learned, to not keep my thoughts in what is past, and to find how the World Race will benefit me in whatever I do next.

Below is an excerpt from a Relevant Magazine article. It articulates a lot of my perspective right now. So in the words of  Shauna Niequest, this is more-or-less what I'm saying to myself:

Don't get stuck. Move, travel, take a class, take a risk. There is a season for wildness and a season for settledness, and this is neither. This season is about becoming. Don't lose yourself at happy hour, but don't lose yourself on the corporate ladder either. Stop every once in a while and go out to coffee or climb in bed with your journal.

Ask yourself some good questions like: "Am I proud of the life I'm living? What have I tried this month? What have I learned about God this year? What parts of my childhood faith am I leaving behind, and what parts am I choosing to keep? Do the people I'm spending time with give me life, or make me feel small? Is there any brokenness in my life that's keeping me from moving forward?"

This next and last World Race transition involves you so much. However it plays out, know that I love you, and I cannot wait to see you. Really. I can't. freaking. wait.

-Katie

Arriving in Ukraine from Nepal was perhaps my greatest culture shock yet. Our persistently white skin, despite the persistent equatorial sun, had afforded us celebrity status... until that hour. Hungry and tired from the long plane ride, my teammates and I stumbled into (what we've always considered) a haven for the hungry and tired: McDonald's.

But stepping into that blast of air conditioning and loud music, we quickly realized our false assumption. The decor was ultramodern and unnaturally clean; there was even a cafe area separate from the normal restaurant. It was like we'd walked through a weird culture-time machine that turned McDonald's into the place to show off your designer jeans, sparkly shoes, skin-tight shirts, and copious amounts of hair gel. 

These people looked like models and

they

were

judging

us.

Fortunately, I didn't pay too much attention to their stares at the time. I couldn't. I was about to eat beef for the first time in 2 months. They could have all tripped over their gorgeous heels for all I cared.

A few weeks later, I had a similar, yet much more personal moment of culture shock. My teammates and I were in the Bucharest metro, on our way to Pitesti for the month. We stumbled onto the train, trying not to knock anyone over with our packs that are somehow still so heavy. Once the metro was in motion, a woman leaned towards us and asked, 

"Where are you from?"

Amber answered, "Oh, we're from America."

The woman and her friend laughed. "We know. Which part of America?"

In that little moment, a memory tugged at me: 

On a different metro, in a different city, three years prior. But in that situation, I was the knowing local.

Sort of.

I wasn't nearly as nice. In the clear memory that flashed through my mind, I was in Paris and on my way to meet a friend. A few tourists stumbled into the metro, armed with lumpy backpacks, matching tennis shoes, and one of those big, colorful maps of the city. I'm pretty sure they were looking for a McDonald's. They turned the map over and over, expressing confusion in loud American English. I said nothing. I remained stoic and unhelpful.

At that point in time, I called southeastern France home, and though I didn't live in Paris, I knew it pretty well. But instead of assisting my countrymen in the metro that day, I did what the locals did: I feigned annoyance and ignored them. Well, it wasn't even "feigning," I was annoyed. How dare they be so... American?

France had the vines of her elegant culture wrapped tightly around my heart and mind that year. Unfortunately, I had let her elitism snake in along with it. I walked her cities in heels every day without missing a step. I wore colorful scarves in the summer heat. I ordered the right wine with the right food. I wore black all the time. I chatted easily with local commuters on the trains. And whenever they happened to ask, "Vous etes Lyonnaise?" I would smile and say, "Non, je suis Americaine." Their surprise at my nationality always made me swell with pride.

And if my public school D.A.R.E programs hadn't done their job, I probably would have done it all with a cigarette in hand. 

It was just that important for me to belong. And I did it well. I was confused for a local almost daily, and nothing made me happier. That was the basis of my self-confidence. That told me I was good enough. I considered it my greatest strength: I could learn well enough to adapt perfectly.

Fast forward, back to that moment just weeks ago in Bucharest. Again, I found myself commuting around a foreign culture. But this time I wasn't in skinny jeans and heels... I was in cut-off K-State sweatpants, worn-out Tevas, and Tiffany Berkowitz's old, pink, pit-stained Beatles t-shirt. My teammates were similarly dressed. It didn't even take our loud laughter as we fell over each other's frame packs; the women in that metro car had known just by looking at me that I was American. Three years ago, that would have horrified me.

But three weeks ago, I embraced it. I greeted her and proclaimed, "I'm from Kansas!" 

The contrast in those two moments in time is so telling. Why did I strive so hard to fool the people around me? To make them think I was something I wasn't? To hide one of the most foundational parts of who I am?

I didn't make it through the first week of the World Race before Tiffany called me out. Long before she gave me that ratty Beatles tee, she said, "It's not adapting. it's people-pleasing."

Ouch. She was right.

All of that effort I put into presenting myself in a "better" light was not a strength. It was my biggest insecurity. I was hiding in fear of judgment. I believed who I could become was much more lovable than who I am. The kicker there is in the verb tenses: who I could become will always be a future conditional. Who I am is always present. 

And that, I believe, may be the single biggest lesson I have ever learned in my life: that I am loved NOW, for who I am TODAY. All of the striving, the impression management, the crippling questions of identity in context, they all fade away in light of that.

 I know who created me. I know He loves me. I know He doesn't change. And I'm done changing myself for anyone but Him.

God has burned away a lot of things in me this year. That Parisienne pride was one of those things. In truth, that pride had very little to do with the French, and everything to do with me. When those women in the Bucharest metro pegged me for what I was--American--my judgement alarm didn't even go off. Some of my French tendencies will never go away: I still love pairing wine & food, and scarves are just fun to wear. And if I were to meet those same tourists today, I'd do what all of my French friends did for me: smile and help.

But if I feel like going for a McFlurry in my pajamas... let freedom ring, y'all.

-Katie

October 2007. I think this was before all that sophistication set in...

How could she care so much about six random white girls who only visited her three times? I suppose anything that brings you joy, then says "I'm not coming back" would be kind of heartbreaking.

     I've been really happy to see the response to all of my introspection lately, but I'm sure you're wondering what we've actually been doing in Romania this month. Basically, we've been doing outreach with a local church, under the direction of Cristi, the pastor. We teach dance lessons to the girls in our neighborhood, and hang out with the young people at the church. Pretty simple. 

Yet our first meeting with the church youth was hilariously complicated. They only asked us three questions:

1. What was your favorite country?

2. What was your most challenging country?

3. What the heck is wrong with you?

We answered the first question (Thailand) and the second question (Uganda) with ease, and all laughed for a while about the third. The wording was a bit of a joke, but they were all genuinely curious as to why we'd left the universal "dream country". That image of America just won't get away from us: perfection, freedom, and endless comfort. Why would we leave that? All I could think to say was, "I knew there was more than that. I wanted it."

The amount of translation required in that conversation was the hilarious part. The 5 of us with 10 Romanians and one Argentinian guy. Whenever he spoke, his local fiancee translated into Romanian, which was in turn translated to English for us. I'm really going to miss this regular jumble of languages.

When our organized discussion ended, the group dissolved into casual conversation. Cristi approached us.

"Girls, I'm about to tell the group some really awful news. I didn't want you to be unaware, but I don't want to have to interrupt it with translation, so you should know that one of the gypsy girls, 12 years old, was killed a few days ago. We're not sure if she was one who came to our activities or not, but it's obviously going to affect the community. So, I'm going to fill them in, and we can talk about it."

Just like that, the face of our work changed. We weren't just in a poor community, we were in a freshly broken one. The parents were scared, and reaching out to Cristi for help. They want better for their kids, somehow. Just days before we started dance classes, some of the moms came to Cristi and asked, "We know you're a pastor. Can you teach us about the Bible?" And just like that, a little church is planted. 

We have known in every community we've worked that we won't be the ones to change it. The locals know the needs better than we can understand in a few short weeks, and their relationships can take permanent root. All we can really do is give them a burst of joy & life, and hope it lingers. That is pretty simple.

-Katie

Yes, my ministry this month is to jam to my favorite songs with 20 little gypsy girls. And to those of you on The Q who are wondering... yes, we taught Sheila. First day. They love it. Here's a glimpse: