the scrawny teenager that always cried

Living in a community, with idealists. It was autumn in Sweden. 

I was nineteen and on the way to discovering what was perhaps my life calling - comforting, encouraging, praying - and at the same time feeling vulnerable and naive like a child. I discovered playfulness, unexpected physical strength, the importance of letting myself get close to others - physically, mentally, spiritually. I cried like I'd never cried before and realised how little I knew myself. 

I had just left my childhood home, thinking I was independent and grown-up. But I was a bambi-eyed, scrawny teenager, weak and unaware of how much others protected me, even as I gradually learned how to look after myself. Perhaps it's the same for everyone at that age.

I grew like a flower during that chilly autumn, safe among people who loved genuinely and warmly. It was an environment I craved - and crave still, perhaps. Later I would realise how isolation and too much indepence always make me sink into apathy and despair.

It was a community of Christian missionaries, and some of the things we talked about seem odd now - not dangerously so, just odd. Like the sinfulness of pride, confessing sins to each other, dealing with the devil, prophesying. But I learned to be open and loving, accept differences, overcome brokenness, speak English, and let myself be loved by others when I least expect it.

Even with the cynicism that has come with the years, I can't seem to lose my faith in God, genuine love, hope.