The Cost of Comfort

When I packed my suitcases over two weeks ago, I made room for The Hobbit. It's my brother's copy, so that means it's in English (mine, in Spanish, has been loaned to a friend for the duration), and as such is a reprieve from my theology and castellano-filled world here. I wouldn't have pegged it as my favorite book, and yet somehow it burrowed itself along with The Silver Chair, The Cost of Discipleship (although now I'm thinking that "Life Together" might be a more appropriate Bonhoefferian selection), and my graduation Bible all the way down to Argentina.

And yet, I'm glad it's here. It's managing to turn itself into quite the allegory for my life right now, as I'm discovering that I have a bit more hobbit in me than I care to normally admit. Hobbits are quiet, unassuming, and above all, devoted to home. "It was a hobbit-hole," I reminisce with the author, "and that means comfort."

Ah, the comforts forgone for a new adventure. Copy machines with a sorting function. Bed springs that don't feel like bed springs and prod my spine as yet another zealous mosquito attaches itself to my ankle (why do they like hands and feet best?). English idioms. Alone time. A full night's sleep. Breakfast. Not crying most evenings. Knowing what I'm supposed to do with my life. There are different kinds of comfort, and it seems I had been hobbitishly devoted to all of them.

Comfort, however, does not make for a good story. I know I'm going through a variation of culture shock, plus the generational angst of being in my twenties, and I know it's not uncommon to lament inconveniences and raw emotions ("not for the last time!") But, ultimately, Jesus hasn't called me to comfort. He has called me on this grand adventure that may or may not involve riddles in the dark. And I will follow, if I can!