The drive through the mountains from Cuernavaca to Mexico City is magnificent. Sharp green covered cliffs stand erect on one side of the highway. Small pueblos of grey cement block buildings are nuzzled into the mountain’s crevasses. Laundry flaps lazily in the wind as a man works the corn in his garden. With the setting sun, the silhouettes of distant mountains turn varying shades of blue and purple against pink and orange clouds. Fields of hay stacks glisten a warm gold. The valley slowly fills with a great sea of lights, splashing like waves against the sides of hills, turned islands.Early this morning, this valley I have come to love bid me farewell. Through blurry, tired eyes, I watched the sun rise and the sky come awake in pinks and blues. After several hours of flying, lost luggage and missed flights, I looked out the shuttle window at Washington Dullus Airport to see the same sun setting behind lines of planes.
It is thoroughly strange to think that five wonderful weeks in México have come to an end. There is so much that changes with only a few hours in a plane. The air here in Boston is different – colder and crisper. It feels fresher, though not as comfortable as the warmth of Cuernavaca.
I feel grateful that I know these places so well – that I can navigate the streets and speak the languages, that I have come to know and understand some of the rhythm of each place. I am grateful that as I drive through Boston I feel a love for this city as well as a readiness to leave it and move to the next place. I am grateful that far away there are other cities and other countries that I will come to know and love like these. I am grateful that this is my life – a life lived here amidst the wonder of so much of God’s creation.
