london//week31

Well here I am in the London Heathrow airport, sitting at my laptop with my Starbucks Gingerbread Latte in hand. I’m back to the land of commercialism and over-stimulation. As I passed through the hour-long security line into the terminal I was bombarded by duty-free shops. Channel, Burberry, Border’s, MAC, all the big boys. I’m back. I was just short of bursting out in tears as my senses were attacked by masses of people, adverts and overfriendly salesman. I’m back.

And then it happened. My great fear. I started looking at those Marc Jacobs shoes. Oooh those are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I noticed the tall Londoner pass me with her designer purse and to-die-for boots. And then another one. And suddenly I felt so inadequate. If I just had that bag. Oh or those books!

NO.
Stop.
This is not happening. Yet another attack of tears. Oh God help me!

Suddenly I was flooded of pictures from my last 7 months. Handing out soup to that little boy with no shoes in the middle of a rainstorm. I’m thinking about that lovely pair of leather boots. Pleading with my HIV positive friend to eat lots of vegetables and take care of herself while I am gone. I’m enjoying my $5 dollar coffee. Holding a little Zambian orphan who was fascinated by my fat. I’m eyeing the skinny blonde across from me. My beloved coffee shop staff who were thrilled to accompany me to the airport because they had never been to one before. This year I have been in 11 airports.

I think I’m going to be sick. I wanna go home. To Paarl.

Oh God, help me. Flood me with your wisdom and compassion. Make me more like your son.