Week: 129

Another comes and goes it seems. I have been deeply wrestling with thought of my coming birth day. Even though I know that it's over 6 months off, I can't help but wonder what all my come of it. "You're just being a worry wort!" right? What makes this such a big deal is that I'll be eighteen— that number which long I have dreaded. It's approach is Impending, with all of the stealth and design of a great-cat, the day comes. What shall I do if the permits do not succeed? I am terrified. I can think of no worse fate than to be shipped back to America, it would divide my being! Not unlike black cauldron of cold and dark and the depressions and vile vindictive vice, which I know well.

What can one do in these times, but hope that what Jesus has planed is somehow better than what I would hope/wish for? I'm not quite to tears yet, but they may come before I have finished penning this. For the first time in a long while, I can't see foreword. This makes me fearful.

If all goes well, we leave for Gaborone at mid-afternoon tomorrow. For my family; it is to be a holiday, but for me, it is a sign that The day, upon which my greatest woes and possible joys hang, from a thread.

I have not seen Bole in over a month except for a glimpse of him passing the gate. He is still alive, somewhere. But it's so freeing with out him, that I almost fear that he might return. Hopefully, I'll have more to share tomorrow. Maybe some good news! 

Good night.