Where is normal?

Furlough . . . it's one of those things you always hear about missionaries doing . . . it means they will come speak at your church wearing odd clothes and show you pictures of themselves eating bugs. I have seen many people come and go from furloughs, but somehow I didn't think it would actually happen to me. In thirteen days, though, I will join the ranks of the furlough-goers and set off on one of my own.

It's kind of an odd feeling, really. I am literally counting down the days until I get to see family and friends at home. But at the same time, I've grown accustomed to life in PNG . . . walking to work on gravel roads, simple choices at the only store, calling my neighbours to borrow chairs from them, asking for butter on the "wanted board" when the store is closed on Saturday, and having friends in my house all the time. When I think about going back to the USA, I can't decide whether I feel like I'm going back to normal life or leaving it behind me.