I look around and hope for more than what I see. I see these things, clippings on a wall, a watercolor of a Nepali girl and a charcoal of a Chinese woman from Dali; Annie Dillard, three volumes, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer on my desk; a sketch of a girl whose face is as of yet unshaded and a black and white photo of my little brother taken when we were all still a family together. An apple green bedspread and a quilted throw. A wicker basket of clean laundry and a pile of to-be-returned library books. My camera. A soccer game is being played by some international students outside my window, their accents casting a colorful hue on my language. It is warm and cool at the same time. I am alone. And I miss my friends.

In the past few days a few of them have expressed the kind of things you don't write about yourself in a public place like this, so I won't tell you what they said. But those things said made the corners of my eyes tear and my heart do funny things. It always feels good to be appreciated. It feels good to finally feel at home here, in this place far away from home.

I know that to say that sounds like I've changed the directions of my heartstrings and it is tempting to excuse myself, to hastily say "But I haven't!" but the truth is that I prayed that eventually I would learn to be myself wherever I found myself. And the truth is that the Lord answers all my prayers.

So I look around myself and see the things that help make this home feel like home and see the things that make this home so different from my real home and remember that there are always in-between homes; places we plant our feet for a season and stand determined to grow, to flourish and to bear fruit. I look around myself and see that somewhere along the way fruit happened and I would have missed it if I hadn't determined to see it.

But that doesn't stop me from still looking around and hoping for more than what I see.