The jungle humidity offers no apologies, the vultures hover, and the heat wraps around me like a warm blanket. I step off the air-conditioned plane and into my first dose of familiarity all year. Am I excited? That would be an understatement. Am I horrified? Absolutely.

The familiar charges me forward. I've been anxious all year to reach that rickety staircase where 40 children await our arrival, but I'm nearly paralyzed by fear. I'm scared they've forgotten, hopeful that they haven't, and anxious for the result either way.

Despite my anxiety, it's time for hammocks, soccer, and cement. I say, "Bring it on."

My reunion wasn't one of screams and leaping children. My children have grown. It wasn't full of tears. Except for my tears of relief in private. It was calm. And had I not been paying attention, I would have missed the mumbled promises throughout the week that I was missed.

I had water fights with Luis Enrique, jumped on the trampoline with Hox, and fished with my beloved twins. It was amazing. Construction was the same. The sun still scorched me and my heart was overwhelmed each time I held one of those children. I still love them as much as I did a year ago, and much to my relief, they still love me too.

So, at this point, I know a lot of you are probably shaking your heads saying, "Kristen, it isn't about you. It doesn't matter if they missed you." My response? Yeah, I know, but I love those children fiercely and can't help but wonder if they noticed my absence while I prayed for them everyday. I know it's not about being remembered.  But to return to a land that looks so much like the others where I've been this year, but see recognition and comfort in the smiles of the children, reminds me that such consistency can exist for those I invested in for such a short time this year. To know that the relationships that I have in Peru can exist for the children I played with in Botswana too. Even if it isn't me....God will provide.

My return from the race has been far more difficult than I ever anticipated. I've felt more distant from the Lord and questioned more about my life in the last 5 weeks than I did the entire year overseas. This made me a little nervous heading down to Iquitos. But all of the doubt, frustration, anxiety and loneliness that I've felt since I got home vanished as I played with my friends in Peru. The love of Christ wells up within me each time I'm down there and it allows me to recall His greatness. I feel Him every time that I invest in those children. It's beautiful and overwhelming.

Please know that I am glad to see you. I am excited to hug you, to see your smile, to share life again with you. However, I am also torn. I am leaving behind another family, new friends, and all that has become familiar.

I will laugh at things, as will you, and we will not understand why the other finds it funny. I will probably melt into a puddle of tears and be unable to tell you why.  I will most likely dance for joy at random, normal American things, likes clothes dryers and sheets, and it will seem silly.

I am two weeks from landing on US soil again and already I feel the pressure. It lurks in my thoughts and it invades my dreams. I cannot tell you what is next because I do not know. I cannot tell you how I will pay my bills or afford normal commodities of American life. I cannot fathom how to neatly summarize a year that has encompassed every emotion imaginable.

I am not sure what you expect of my return. I am not coming home as a beautifully wrapped, crisp-cornered Christmas present. Instead, I am something like a present that is patch-worked together with previously used paper and half a roll of tape.

I guess what I am trying to say is that our reunion may look a little differently than expected. I am asking for your love and patience, sprinkled with a little grace and mercy, as we both adjust to my return.

 This was the BURN Crew that spent a month together in worship.

The following excerpt was from one of my first journal entries on the race.

Did she really just do that?? The exclamation takes places in my mind. That girl just took my spoon out of MY cereal and used it in her own Cheerios. Creepy. She doesn't even know me. I could have some kind of disease. Whatever. Gross. I don't understand these people.

FLASH FORWARD -> -> -> 10 months later

We arrived in Moldova in the middle of the night last night, making our primary agenda this afternoon sleep. Due to "wars" in various Ukranian locations, we've had to dodge certain train stations. Thus, we're all sitting around waiting for our train that takes off in another 12 hours.

So, I'm leaned up against the wall of a Moldovan station listening to the familiar snores and heavy sighs that resonate off the vaulted ceilings of our current resting place. I'm overwhelmed, thankful, and amused at how dear those sounds have become to me over the last ten months. In January, I couldn't even sleep in the same room with these people out of fear.  Stupid? Maybe. But sleep is so intimate and requires feeling safe before you dose off. It leaves you vulnerable. The toughest woman alive can look as gentle as she truly is when she sleeps. Unknowingly, you let people know that you're not as tough as you think you are. So, in month one that was definitely not a game I was willing to play. There was no sleeping in public.

Well, I'm beginning to see how much the Lord has changed this insecurity within me as my squad mates are piled up across the station, sleeping on one another's packs and pillows. I'm no longer surrounded by strangers, but alongside 51 people that know more of my embarrassing idiosyncrasies and quirks than most people ever will. We all know who talks in their sleep, who snores, who drools, and who has a shopping problem. I know guys turn into babies when they get sick, I know who doesn't shower, and I know who claims not to be a picky eater but is the biggest diva I've ever met.  (You know who you are :) )

A typical day has me sharing silverware, wearing a teammate's clothing, and using the community chap stick when my lips are dry. Quite the transformation from January, isn't it?

So, as I watch Jenn Myers curl up in a little ball with her Eskimo jacket, and Tim flopping from side to side on a sleeping mat like he isn't an enormous, 6'4 giant, and powerful leader, I'm overwhelmed. I am so thankful for this unexpected family. If I never saw these people again after this 11-month journey,  my relationships with them would never have been wasted. For a short while, the Lord used these 51 men and women to encourage, empower, and challenge me. I'll be forever grateful.

But in the meantime, I let the exhaustion from my overnight bus ride get to me, and drift off to sleep alongside my squad mates.

Living in a small gypsy village settled amidst the rolling hills of Romania, I've had a job picking apples, charaded my way through conversation, and spent hours picking grapes off the vines that fill the village. Walking to my ministry location for the day, horse buggies clack down the street next to me as scarved gypsy women nod and blow kisses from their frequented benches. It's one of those moments where you shake your head, close your eyes, and are almost surprised to open them again and find that this small village is your present reality.

Welcome to Ville Tecii, Romania.

My team of 5 readjusts to our ninth month overseas, as we familiarize ourselves with gypsy lingo, the long drop and mixing cement. It's no longer a surprise that plumbing and warm showers are a luxury 2 months from our grasp, as we've grown accustomed to the "norm" everywhere else in the world.

Wading through the scent of honeysuckle and horse manure, I jump across an open sewage line, hold my breath, and grab a hold of the rusty fence outside the house I've frequented all week. Before my feet hit the dirt on the front walkway however, a 4 year old little boy graces the front steps. He screams my name and bolts towards me as fast as his little legs will carry him, leaping fearlessly into my arms.

I've grown accustomed to this warm greeting with my new Romanian friend.  His name is Feli and he's a 4-year-old gypsy who loves soccer, riding his bike, and playing with his 2 cousins. His 16-year-old brother and his brother's girlfriend seem to care for him while his mother works in the orchard all day. Food is scarce and the house is falling apart. I practically have to play hopscotch across their living room floor when I visit or I'll slide right through the gaping holes in the floorboards.

Feli and I spend hours together working on his bike, flipping through picture books, and playing soccer with all of his friends. We pick apples when its time for a snack and sit on the lumber in the soccer field when it's time for a break. Our time together is simple. We don't have detailed discussions about life, avoid each other because we can't communicate, or watch television to pass the time.  We just play together.  That's enough.

Traveling the world can be frustrating sometimes as you surround yourself with people of different nations, languages, and backgrounds. You want to know the people you're with, you want to know their story and details about their lives. When that communication barrier exists, its easy to just opt for a day with the Americans. It's easier, but choosing the easy road this year would have robbed me of so many precious relationships. I've loved so many people all around the world because I've trusted in the Lord to offer different venues of communication.  He certainly has provided too. In Asia, it was hand signals. In Africa, I had smiles, and in Eastern Europe, laughter was all the conversation we needed.