Not a missionary

                                                                                                                            December 6, 2012

I miss my home and the best peaches in the whole earth, which grow right outside my bedroom window—white peaches. The yellow peaches on the lower level are nearly as good. I didn’t get any this year because we were travelling, and we won’t eat any for five years…and who knows if they’ll be good anymore without care?

I miss my lemons…I hope we can grow some quickly here. I miss my glider and my pergola with our baby swing and our oranges and blood oranges and our cute backyard and our picnic tables that my husband built for me…and did I mention the peaches?

I miss going to the store and buying berries, and whatever I want to buy. The children are using up the tape on nothing. Where do I buy more tape? I wish I had some duct tape, and some packing tape.

I want to go home. There are biting, stinging bugs everywhere. Today there was a small scorpion in the mosquito net. The net was open, and I hope that’s why. I think that those flat spiders and the scorpions could get in our nets even tucked in. 

We are not “in” here. No one seems to care about us much, and I don’t feel connected to any of them, either. I’m not trying to endear myself to them, and I wouldn’t know how. They are all very different from me, and not one of them understands my fear of bugs. Not one. I don’t want to be a thorn in the flesh.

So that’s it. I’m not a missionary. No missionaries have bug-o-phobia like I do, and they are content to have houses with holes and rotten roofs. Before I had children I was okay, but now, I don’t seem to be missionary material. Let me go home.