This...

...is where I was born.

Where I grew up.

Where I buried myself in sand.

Where I ran.

Where my family is.

This was every single day for me.

It was replaced with American culture.

I learned how to drive.

I'd sit by the radio listening to rock music.

I learned English.

I became another person.

I buried this memory.

I worked.

My goals were school and work.

I craved the outdoors, so I camped.

I would cherish the smell of a good campfire.

I delighted in the annual Texas snow.

I call Texas home.

I know all the backroads.

I know the system.

I made amazing friendships.

I learned lessons I couldn't have learned otherwise.

I got to know the power of God.

I fell in love with Jesus.

The reality of this place hit me when the plane landed in Rio.

I couldn't wipe my tears away fast enough, as they stubbornly spilled out.

Where have I been?

4 years without coming... home.

The excuses flood my brain: I was in school,

I didn't have any vacation time, I didn't have

money for a plane ticket, I was too caught up in

life, I.... well.... I didn't make time. It didn't take

priority.

My family. My country. My heritage. My culture.

The warmth. The infectious joy of life.

The dancing. The affection.

And as if I hadn't been torn enough when I was

11 years old, torn away from this.

I am now torn again.

That same place in my heart is tearing for Brazil.

Daddy, could I do ministry here?

_______________________________

I'm ready for The World Race.

Give me a place that isn't America or Brazil.

The first time it wasn't my choice...

Now it is

And I don't know where God wants me yet.