I sent out my fundraising letters and people are starting to donate, so there's no turning back. I'm going to India.
Over Thanksgiving, I was worried about engaging in conversations. First of all, I'm not a fan of verbal expression. Second of all, I have zero filter so if you ask me a question you're getting the whole truth. I really didn't want to talk about my writing or what's next. And I didn't want to talk about my weirdo missions trip to India because I was convinced my non-Christian friends would not be interested.
But they were!
Everyone I talked to beamed with excitement. They assured me it's going to be life-changing. Friends who have gone. Friends who haven't. So that was encouraging.
Meanwhile, there's my father ...
God love him and his big Italian heart. The man still calls me "his little girl." FYI - I'm old. He's always been over-protective of his kiddos. But for some reason he singled me out. It might have something to do with a dream he had about me dying before my fifth birthday. I'm pretty sure we're probably in the clear. But he worries. So. Much. Worrying.
Regardless of his neurosis, he's supported everything about me (with the exception of a couple categorically horrible decisions in the late 90s). Yet, he worries. About everything. Like me dying before my fifth birthday ...
So, for the next month I can look forward to these sort of messages from my father.
Note: he uses phone dictation, so many of his messages are difficult to decipher.