A year ago today, I woke up in the city of Florence.
On the other side of my first international flight, heart full of excitement and… fear.
This wasn’t me.
I am the calculated risk-taker.
The anything-but-rash child of rural suburbia.
…the girl with a heart crying out for something she’s never known.
I had always held the dream of Italy as just that. A dream. A crazy adventure taken to be had somewhere in the long-distant future. But with God’s ever-gentle prompting my heart towards action over intention, I began to question myself.
What was I waiting for?
It would never be “the perfect time;”
there is no combination of factors that would please everyone;
the alignment of the stars is a myth.
So here I was. In a teeny Italian apartment 86 steps above the Piazza del Duomo. Waking to a double window across the Duomo, opening to a street lined with shops, restaurants, bicycles, foot traffic, and dreams.
Here I was; tumbling heart-first into a foreign world I had dared to do no more than dream of. Not on a definitive missions trip but one that would require more of a reliance on and faith in Christ than I had ever known or had to tempt.
Good morning, city of my dreams.
And to the God who holds them all.