forward thinking.

It started with a Southern Living magazine.

I am sitting in a cafe in Arequipa, Peru, which has come to mean home to me. Behind me are Argentines speaking beautiful Spanish. While I listen to this tongue that I love so much, I also long for the South. However, I can't shake the other longing within me: Some seemingly impossible life in South America, Latin America, or Spain.

Flipping through the pages of this coveted gift that my mom sent me in an even-more-coveted box filled with goodies, I am reading the prose that describes my other home, browsing through images of perfect houses in Charleston and New Orleans, and imagining myself attempting these do-it-yourself projects that I know I'll never actually do. Beautiful photographs of my beloved South jump off the page at me: The mountains of Georgia and the coastal towns of the Carolinas remind me of long-ago memories.

And I just start to cry.

I don't think I'm crying because I miss America, but rather because I simply love the Southern states, my old stomping ground. And it hit me: I will be back there in about five months. One would think I'd be happy. Sure, there is excitement in the prospect of return, of seeing my family, hugging my puppies, drinking sweet tea, driving with the windows rolled down on still-sweetly warm August evenings.

But I know myself. I get restless.

I know that when I'm in Georgia, or wherever I end up, I'll miss my Peruanos, my ex-pat friends, drinking mate, going to the market on an almost-daily basis, walking everywhere, and having a ton of ridiculous stories that only come from living in a culture that is not your own.

I can't fathom being in Georgia for too long. I'm deathly afraid of going back to little prospect of getting a job, of living with my parents for who-knows-how-long, of the all-around awful economic situation that America has found herself. Perhaps even scarier is the thought of me staying and getting sucked into suburban vanity. As I read the magazine, I think to myself, "I don't want perfection, I don't want this Southern Living life."

That brings me to this: I don't think I'm meant to live in the United States forever. Or perhaps I should conjecture that I could live in a country not my own. This is a huge realization, one that I am unsure will come to fruition.

God granted my prayer, my dream, to come to a Spanish-speaking country and teach English. This was planted in my heart long before I met Him. He made it better and allowed that dream to evolve into ministry.

As I prepare to leave, to journey into the next step, what would God have me do next? What dreams and prayers set forth will he grant--to His glory?

My mother says that to quench my travel desires, I should be a flight attendant. I pray fervently (and sometimes shed a couple nervous tears) during every little shake on a plane. "Maybe a student tour guide, then?," she suggests. I remember my class trip to Spain when I was 16. God bless my tour guide. I still remember her: Kate, from England. If I were Kate, I would have hurt my obnoxious 16-year-old self. Another no-go.

My desires seem to be all over the place right now, and I confess it's hard to trust the Lord. I don't really know what I want, to be honest. Deep down I do long for stability, for a career, for a family. Kentucky writer Wendell Berry's words echo in my head, with themes of "staying" suspended in my conscious.

What do you do when you've fallen in love with two places, two peoples, and two cultures that are polar opposites? When the thought of leaving your birthplace for a long time floats through your mind, anchors in your heart, and you begin to ache? My stomach twists in knots over this idea of creating a home so far away from the South. From my family, my food, my traditions. My language and my vernacular. My weather, my sports, and my memories. And yet, I'm still enamored with this prospect.

Where is my next stop? Am I meant to practice the art of staying? That would be hard for me, I think. And yet, it would be another lesson to learn.